


The Other Side of the Mirror

by EventHorizon



Series: Lets You Know You're Alive [2]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cabinlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-23 01:18:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 49
Words: 258,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes is a very busy man.  How is it that one Detective Inspector can help him feel like a less busy man, even when a personal crisis rears its ugly head?  And his home fills with visitors.  And relatives.  And, of course, Arthur Shappey...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Step on the Road

**Author's Note:**

> A companion piece to Take Them Where You Find Them. That gargantu-fic should probably be digested before jumping into this one...

Lestrade wanted to shoot his desk.  Get a weapon, unload a full clip directly into each of the stacks of papers littering his workspace, reload, do it again and then set everything on fire.  And that was exactly what the young constable saw in the man’s eyes when he quietly knocked and presented another small stack of folders that required _immediate_ attention.

Since Sherlock’s bloody swan dive and miraculous return, there had been two camps at the Yard.  Those that blamed him for the dive and those that blamed him for the return.  Either way, someone blamed him for something.  But, all agreed on one thing – he’d done his job.  He’d done his job properly and he’d done it well.  And he continued to do that, not giving the bastards one reason to bring him in front of a desk to hand him a dismissal slip.  Not that anyone was actually angling to put him on the street.  This was the paranoia and anger that always seemed to creep out of the dark corners of his brain lately when he was tired, overwhelmed, thought about the gorgon that posed as his ex-wife…  Truth be told, the job went on as it always did and it was getting easier to forget that bleak period when there wasn’t a pompous git racing in and out of his office with his one-man cheering squad in his wake.

There he went again.  John was no one’s cheering section.  It was only now that John was beginning to smile with any real light behind it.  He’d been a broken man for so long and the bones were slow to mend, but it was happening.  He’d never been Sherlock’s sycophant, either.  Lestrade needed  a pint. Maybe two.  Or eight.  A pint, a carton of very greasy Thai food and a good match on the telly.  Oh wait, he had something much better.  Paper.  Lots and lots of paper…

And now the phone was ringing.  The phone, which was really just another piece of paper except it talked.  Another problem, complaint, case, order or other burden laid on his desk to go with the eternity of others.  He’d take this message with a blue pen.  He’d used a black one for the last few, so it was time to get a little crazy about things.

      “Lestrade.”

      “Ah Detective Inspector, how good that you are available to take my call.”

Well, that was just the hand of God punching him in the gut, wasn’t it?  Mycroft Holmes…

      “What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”

      “I find myself in need of a small favor, if you would be so kind.  Nothing that will occupy an undue measure of your time, but it is something of importance to me and I would be very grateful for any assistance you can provide.”

Favor?  A favor for Mycroft Holmes?  Normally, granting a favor was something Lestrade didn’t mind doing since he’d be owed one in return.  However, he had a strong suspicion that doing a favor for Mycroft Holmes would find him owing four more to the man and entering into an agreement to take a bullet for him without the benefit of Kevlar.  But refusal would probably find him naked, bound, gagged, coated in honey and dropped off in the middle of the Amazon on top of a mound of army ants.  Why on earth did he even like this man?

      “I’ll help if I can.  I presume this is confidential.”

      “Actually, no.  This is a favor of a more personal nature.  I would ask you to reach out to your colleagues in the Fitton area and politely request that they intensify their search for a particular person and vehicle.”

      “I’m confused.  Can’t you do that?”

      “Without question, however, I find that in some situations a hand extended in friendship by a colleague can produce faster and more successful results.”

      “So, it’s time sensitive.”

      “I fear so…”

It was a rare thing that Mycroft Holmes found himself hesitant to take an action, but there were times even _he_ second-guessed himself.

      “Are you perhaps free, Detective Inspector?  I would rather discuss this matter in person, if that is at all possible.  Do not hesitate to refuse if you are otherwise occupied.”

On one hand, a face-to-face with the one person in London that Lestrade knew he’d never be able to completely read and on the other… paper.

      “I can get away for bit.  Our normal spot?”

      “That would be most acceptable.  I will meet you there.  Good day, Detective Inspector.”

      “See you, Mr. Holmes.”

__________

Lestrade thought back on the first time he’d met Mycroft Holmes at the tiny café.  It had been raining, cold and the man sitting across from him seemed even colder.  It was a long time before Lestrade realized that the icy exterior covered something warmer, at least for certain things such as his infantile brother.  And there were the few times when a true monster evaded the Queen’s justice only to end up floating in the Thames within a week.  Monsters Lestrade had complained of during one of his occasional meetings for tea with the elder Holmes.

      “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

The man moved like a jungle cat.

      “Not at all.  Just enjoying a spot of tea and watching the people.  Nice thing to do when I’m not worried about arresting any of them.”

      “Quite.  And how have you been?  I apologize that we have not been able to meet for tea for some time.”

      “Work comes first.  You don’t have to tell _me_ that.  Now, what’s this favor you’re asking about?”

Mycroft waved over the server and ordered a cup of the tea that Lestrade didn’t need to know was kept behind the counter for his personal use.

      “It has come to my attention that someone in whom I have an interest has not been seen at their home or place of work for several days.  Their vehicle is also missing and, apparently, the local authorities do not consider their disappearance a high-priority matter.  I would like you to change their opinion about that.”

 _Someone in whom I have an interest_ … there was no reason for Lestrade to feel a cold lump grow in his gut, but another swallow of hot tea did little to make the lump go away.  He really needed to get laid.  It had been _far_ too long…

      “Missing person, huh?  Man, woman, child, adult?”

      “Male, adult.”

Of course.

      “History of mental disease or violent tendencies?”

      “None of which I am aware.”

But maybe not that committed.

      “Yeah, that would put it down at the bottom of the ladder.  What makes you think this person didn’t just go off on a little holiday?”

      “That could very well be the case; however, he did not inform his employer about any upcoming time away from his job.  And this particular individual would not be careless about such a thing.”

Committed enough that he knew the man took his job seriously, though.

      “Ok, well, I do know a few blokes on the job out that way who might be willing to take a closer look at things.  Give me what you know and I’ll pass it along.”

Mycroft felt himself relax a little at Lestrade’s agreement.  He had calculated that the man _would_ offer his assistance, however, the Detective Inspector had defied his carefully-prepared analyses on more than one occasion.

      “Excellent.  You have my sincere gratitude for this, Gregory.”

 _Gregory_ … now that made the cold lump thaw quite nicely.  Lestrade wondered if there were any numbers in his old black book that might be interested in a hook up with a broken-down old copper.  One thing was for sure, the man sitting across from him wouldn’t be.

      “His name is Martin Crieff, an airline pilot.”

Mycroft reached into his inner pocket, drew out a slip of paper and passed it across the table.

      “That is the information I currently possess that may prove relevant.”

Lestrade looked over the information and wasn’t surprised to see it was concise and to the point.  Name, address, physical description, vehicle registration and other pertinent facts.  The only thing missing was who Mycroft was to this Martin Crieff.

      “He is my cousin.”

Damned family of mind readers!  But this was _very_ interesting.  A cousin.  Another member of the great Holmes dynasty.  No wonder Mycroft was looking into this himself.  If his devotion to his brother was any indication, Mycroft Holmes took family very seriously.  And it meant that Martin wasn’t anyone _else_ …

      “Ok, good to know.  And… I’m sorry.  I don’t know what it’s like to lose family like that but…”

      “They do seem to keep vanishing, don’t they?”

Lestrade had enough experience with Mycroft’s facial expressions to know that this smile was not even remotely close to genuine.  Few people would know or understand how deeply Sherlock’s situation had affected Mycroft, and Lestrade most certainly did not count himself in that group, but he at least realized that the man _was_ affected, which was more than most people would credit.

      “Well, let’s see what we can do to get this one back.  Any photos?”

      “Nothing recent.  However…”

Mycroft reached into his pocket and drew out a wallet that Lestrade suspected cost as much as the suit he was married in.  He watched as Mycroft withdrew a small photograph from the very back and handed it over.

      “You’re kidding me?”

      “How fortunate that your burning curiosity about what Sherlock would look like as a ginger has been satisfied.  Though you must deduct a number of inches in height.  A goodly number of inches.”

      “I’ll… uh… can I hold onto his?  I’ll fax it around with the rest of the information.”

Lestrade noticed the slight reticence before Mycroft nodded his assent.  Another look confirmed that it was an original picture, not a copy.  And an old one.  No recent ones, though… 

      “We have not been close of late.”

      “That’s more than a little annoying, you know.”

      “I would think you would appreciate the efficiency, Detective Inspector.”

      “I appreciate talking to someone who can’t peer into my immortal soul and see all my sins laid out like potatoes at vegetable stall.”

      “Potatoes?  Your sins are far more tomato-like, if I am to render judgment.”

Vibrant, firm, juicy, succulent… Lestrade _wished_ his sins were tomato-like.  But he couldn’t hold back the grin that crept up the corners of his lips.

      “Well that made my day.”

      “Such was my intention.”

It wasn’t a particularly pleasant day, but sharing a chuckle with Mycroft Holmes seemed to chase away at least some of the clouds.

      “Count it as a win, then.”

      “I shall.  One’s, as they say, ‘win column’ should be as robust as possible.  Now, unfortunately, I must take my leave.  Things to do, as I’m sure you understand.”

      “Not a problem.  I should probably get back, myself.  There be paper dragons that only my sword can slay.”

That little smirk _was_ genuine.

      “The best of luck to you, Detective Inspector, on your noble mission.  I trust you will keep me informed about the progress on my little matter?”

      “Absolutely.  I’ll get right on this when I’m back at my office.”

      “I should make you aware that Sherlock is already investigating Martin’s disappearance.  Do inform your colleagues not to hold him for too long if he is arrested.  Sherlock is a terrible nuisance when in custody.”

      “Don’t I know it.  Yeah, I’ll pass that along.  Good to know he’s out there looking.”

      “Yes… yes it is.”

Mycroft’s gaze turned inward and Lestrade had no idea what the man was looking at.  In the next moment, the placid smile was back on Mycroft’s lips and he was making his final goodbye, stepping outside to the car that was waiting at the curb.  Lestrade looked again at the photo in his hand and marveled at the similarity between Sherlock and the man pictured.  He left the cafe wondering what else about them was similar.

__________

Lestrade made a flurry of calls when he got back to his desk, reaching out to colleagues and calling in small favors he’d garnered through years of cooperation with other houses.  Assured that Martin’s disappearance would at least not fall between the cracks, he called Mycroft, leaving a voice message when the wheels were in motion.  And that was the last contact he had with the man for a couple of days until he received notice that Martin’s van had been found, empty, and towed from a behind a row of half-built shops.  A double-check that the numbers matched and he was on the phone to Mycroft, again leaving a voice message.  After an hour with no word and with the clock indicating that his day ended _two_ hours ago, Lestrade gathered his coat and returned to his flat.

A quick scramble and toast, then a bottle of beer and a run-through of the channels and finally Lestrade was able to begin to wind down from the day.  Of course, that was the moment his mobile had to ring.

      “Lestrade.”

      “I must offer you my deepest apologies, Detective Inspector.  I was not able to respond to your message until now and I do not want you to think that your efforts were unappreciated.”

That was strange.  Mycroft  Holmes beginning a conversation with an apology.  Lestrade looked out of his window to see if any signs of the Apocalypse were manifesting outside on the street.

      “It’s not a problem, Mr. Holmes, but thank you.  The boys got a call about a brawl and when they got a constable out there, the only thing left was the van.”

      “Yes… I’ve already had that taken care of.”

      “Any news on your cousin?”

      “Actually, there _is_ news.  Sherlock located Martin.  I’m afraid the ‘brawl’ was the result of that happenstance.”

      “Sherlock and Martin?”

      “Quite.  There is a bit of history behind my brother and my cousin that does not bear repeating at this time, but let us say it was not the most joyful of reunions.”

      “Bad luck, mate… I mean, Mr. Holmes.”

      “You need not stand on formality when I interrupt your off-duty time, Detective Inspector.”

      “Detective Inspector?”

      “Ah… I have had a trying day and perhaps am not at my best.”

      “Is everything… are things alright?”

      “At the moment, they are as ‘alright’ as they can be and I have hopes that improvement will be soon in coming.”

      “Anything I can do?”

      “Not at this time.  It’s in John’s hands now.”

John’s hands?  That didn’t sound good.

      “Is someone hurt?”

For some reason, that drew a quiet laugh from the man on the other end of the call.

      “If pride counts, then Sherlock is gravely injured.  Cousin Martin is apparently more skilled in hand-to-hand combat than his stature would indicate.  However, there are no physical injuries with which to concern yourself.”

      “So what’s the problem?”

Lestrade heard Mycroft draw in a deep breath and swore to himself that he had heard that particular labored intake before.

      “Martin has apparently acquired a problem with substances of an illicit nature.”

Christ.  The lad was on drugs.  Now Lestrade knew where he’d heard that tired and frustrated sigh before.  He’d heard it many, many times when Sherlock had his own run-in with drugs.

      “I’m sorry about that.  I am very, very sorry about that.  I know it must be especially difficult for you.”

      “I admit that I was not expecting this situation; however, perhaps there is comfort in the fact that none of what will follow will be a surprise.”

That it wouldn’t.  Mycroft had not shied away from any of the horrors of Sherlock’s problem.  Lestrade remembered the times he’d arrived at whatever cupboard Sherlock was using as a flat and found Mycroft cleaning up after his brother’s bouts of sickness, bathing his emaciated body when Sherlock was too strung out to even notice, trying to force any bit of food into his brother’s mouth to attempt to keep him alive for another chance to put his life back on track.  Lestrade wondered if Sherlock had ever thanked his brother for any of that… or if he even remembered any of it.

      “Well, it isn’t for me either, so if you need any help… I hope you let me know.  I’m serious, Mr. Hol…. Mycroft.  If there’s something I can do, just phone.”

Having his given name used casually was not something Mycroft was used to but… in very, very rare moments of weakness…  he had hoped that the DI would become comfortable enough with their association to dispense with ‘Mr. Holmes.’  This was perhaps not the circumstance in which he hoped the name would be uttered, but it eased something inside him, nonetheless.

      “I am very grateful for that… Gregory. And I do assure you that if your assistance is required, I will not hesitate to inform you.  I shall, however, take no more of your time tonight.  Enjoy your evening, Det… Gregory.”

      “You as well… Mycroft.  Thanks for calling.”

Lestrade set aside his phone once he heard the call terminate and stared a few moments at the images on the program he’d been watching.  Poor bastard… Mycroft had gotten Sherlock straightened out and now he had another young Holmes to tend to.  But this time they _did_ have John at the ready.  A talented and dedicated doctor on site would have been a great help during Sherlock’s black period, but Lestrade knew that the detective would have pushed away anyone who tried to help him, much as he pushed away Mycroft.  There was never any discussion, any conversation about that time between himself and Sherlock, so Lestrade had no idea why when Sherlock pushed at him, it was weak and, he suspected, only for show.  One day, perhaps, he’d find out why Sherlock had let him help, but now was certainly not the time to dredge up that old mud.

Lestrade got himself another beer and wondered what Mycroft was doing right now.  Was he in a vast and ornate office saving Britain from enemies of the state or doing much as he was… relaxing in front of the telly, in crap clothes, with a beer in his hand.  The image of Mycroft in casual garb, laying on a couch, sipping a beer, with his immaculate hair softened and tossled… it was officially now time to turn off his brain and let the telly do its job to mindlessly entertain him.  Fantasizing about a man like Mycroft Holmes was not going to be a good idea.  He already had a painful case of blue balls… being a dead man with blue balls wasn’t really an improvement. 


	2. A Bit of Manly Bonding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief update owing to the impending Ball Drop. Happy New Year everyone!
> 
> And thank you kindly for all the wonderful comments you've left...

In light of the impromptu rehab program being conducted at 221B, Lestrade was taken aback to walk into the morgue and find the enormous crow of a detective with his finger in the empty eye socket of the corpse on the exam table.

      “What in the hell are you doing here?”

Sherlock turned a narrowed eye towards the DI and poked his finger deeper into the corpse.

      “Why would I not be here?”

      “Well, for starters, you don’t actually work here.  Second, you’ve got a situation at home that probably needs your attention.”

Sherlock withdrew his finger with a wet and rather ugly slurp.

      “What situation?”

      “Your cousin, Sherlock.”

Sherlock covered the distance between himself and Lestrade in three very long strides tossing his latex gloves on the cadaver along the way.

      “What do you know of Martin?”

      “His name. That he was missing.  That he's got a drug problem you should be helping him with.”

Sherlock’s hissed _Mycroft_ did not push the DI back as he hoped it might.

      “Yeah, Mycroft told me.  He had me use my connections to try and get the locals to keep a sharper eye out for the lad.  Heard you and he got into a little dust-up when you found him.  Not a fan, I guess.  Doesn’t change the fact that you should be there giving the man some support.”

Lestrade watched the young detective’s scowl erupt and intensify as he spoke and had to wonder just what the story was between Sherlock and his cousin because this scowl was more one that tried to hide a feeling than express one.

      “Martin is none of your concern.  He is not in possession of any illegal substances, so the authorities have no claim on his person.”

      “Mycroft’s worried and you should be, too.”

      “Mycroft is worried about nothing except his associates finding out that yet another of his family counts as a disappointment to the name.”

Lestrade blinked back his surprise when he realized that Sherlock was serious and not engaging in his normal drama.

      “Sherlock, you don’t honestly think that of your brother?  I admit, Mycroft’s not the warmest of people, but he cares for you.  A hell of a lot more than you seem to realize.”

      “My relationship with my brother is absolutely none of your business, Lestrade.  Neither is my relationship with Martin.  John and Arthur are more than enough to ensure he receives the proper care.”

      “Arthur?”

      “Martin’s friend.”

      “Friend as in friend or friend with those air quote things they do?”

      “If you are asking if Arthur is Martin’s lover then the answer is no.  Though it is obvious he desires a more traditionally-romantic relationship with my cousin than they currently experience.”

      “Well, at least he’ll have something to talk about with John while you’re hiding out here.”

Sherlock absolutely did not like the grin on the DI’s face at the moment.  It spoke of things that he either knew nothing about or would not easily understand if he did.  Neither was acceptable.

      “What do you mean?”

      “Good lord, Sherlock, you don’t have to look like you’re getting ready to put another body on that table.  All I was saying is that both of them have experience with unrequited affection.  Misery loves company and all that.”

Why wasn’t that grin going away?

      “So, this Arthur just came along to help see Martin through his rough patch?”

      “Not exactly.  Arthur assisted me during my investigation.  After we located Martin, he came to assist with Martin’s rehabilitation.”

      “Assisted you?  You had yourself _another_ John while you were out wandering?  How’s the real John feel about that?”

Why was the grin getting larger?

      “Arthur provided valuable assistance that was critical in locating my cousin.  Why would that displease John?”

The poor boy was so out of his depth that Lestrade decided to leave off the teasing.  For now.

      “No reason.  No reason at all.  But that still doesn’t explain why you’re here and not doing your bit for family.”

      “Martin is much calmer when I am not in the vicinity and being absent is my method of ‘doing my bit for family.’  I do not have the medical skills required for his treatment and Arthur provides sufficient nurturing for any number of nurses and bedside visitors.”

      “Well then, how about helping _them_?”

      “That makes no sense.”

      “Yeah, it does.  Takes a lot to care for someone getting off the drugs and that doesn’t leave a lot of time to take care of yourself.  Do a few things to make life easier on them.  Pick up some groceries, make sure the washing’s done, don’t muck up the place like you do and give more reason for John’s head to ache.  Think you can do that?”

Sherlock stared intensely at Lestrade and observed that the man was giving sincere advice.   And, though Sherlock was loathe to admit it, Lestrade had offered him productive advice in the past on certain matters concerning John.  Although he had no interest in housework, he did have an interest in ensuring John’s continued goodwill and if a few simple measures could accomplish that goal, then he could allocate mental resources to remembering to do them.

      “I can do anything I set my mind to, Lestrade.   Unlike you, my efforts are not limited by a staggeringly average intelligence.”

      “Average, huh?  Well, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.  Anyway, I’ll give John a ring later myself and see if he needs anything.”

      “I can take care of John!”

Said with a snarl that seemed to actually confuse the detective… so out of his depth he couldn’t reach the surface if he was on stilts.  Maybe one day Sherlock would put together the pieces and Lestrade could finally stop worrying that the boy would let John Watson slip through his fingers.

      “That you can, Sherlock.  Doesn’t mean, though, that others can’t lend a hand, too.  And if you’re actually looking to stay away from the flat for awhile, I do have a case I could use your help with.  Probably not up to your normal standards, but it’d be better than poking dead people in the eye.”

The snarl on Sherlock’s face slowly faded as his indignation waned and his interest peaked.

      “I am sure it will be of little interest, but I can spare a modicum of attention for your trifling problem.”

      “Good of you.  I’ve got the file in my office.  Ready to go?”

Sherlock looked back at the body and nodded.

      “He is not going anywhere.”

      “That a joke?”

      “Not good?”

      “Actually, not bad.”

__________

The next several days passed with Sherlock stopping in periodically to drop off a file and berate Lestrade for giving him cases that lacked challenge…while grabbing another file from the older man’s hands.  They did not speak of Martin and his problems, but Lestrade periodically phoned John to get an update and pass along his support.  It was quite a shock when instead of Sherlock barging into his office one night, it was the older Holmes.  In a pull-over and casual trousers.  Lestrade was very glad he was seated behind his desk because the sight in front of him was doing impolite things to certain parts of his anatomy.

      “This is a surprise, Mr. Holmes.  One of those ‘casual days’ at Whitehall?   I haven’t seen you in clothes like that since…. oh… had a bit of a visit, did you?”

      “Very perceptive, Detective Inspector.  I did pay cousin Martin a visit today.”

      “How’s he doing?”

      “As well as can be expected.  He is making progress and is committed to his recovery; therefore, I am hopeful that he will be successful in breaking himself of the addiction.”

      “Good to hear.  Really sir, good to hear.”

A sour flavor rippled across Mycroft’s tongue, but could not deny that in this place, the formalities had to be observed.  There was a way to void that requirement, however.

      “Detective Inspector, I do not know if you are able to agree, but I find myself desiring a small spot of scotch and would enjoy some pleasant company while I indulge.  Would you be able and willing to join me?  I assure you, I do not plan a late evening, so your morning will not be a difficult one.”

Join Mycroft Holmes for a drink?  _Him_?  Lestrade hoped to hell he wasn’t staring like a fool because the last thing he wanted right now was for Mycroft decide he’d asked a nutter out for a drink and take back his offer.

      “I’d… I’d be honored.”

Oh, that smile was not helping Lestrade calm the embarrassing little problem he had in his trousers, but fortunately, he was able to spin around and grab his jacket (which reached to thigh level) before even a Holmes could notice his body didn’t mind if his morning was a _very_ difficult one…  Yeah… it had been a long time.

Lestrade followed Mycroft out of his office and marveled at what a difference a change of clothes could make.  Normally, walking with the man, in his multi-thousand pound suits, umbrella, un-thought about confidence, cool persona, and seemingly unlimited power could make Lestrade feel _small_.  He had kicked, clawed, scratched and outwitted his way up through the ranks to his current position in the force, but Mycroft Holmes made him feel like a rookie with an ease that was frightening.  Now, it was just like two blokes strolling out of the building on their way to a pub to enjoy a few and a little conversation.  In a very expensive vehicle that was being chauffeur driven.

      “I do appreciate this, Detective Inspector.  It is not often I can enjoy a relaxing drink with agreeable company.”

      “I think you can call me Greg now.  We did pass the front door a few steps ago.”

Mycroft smirked at the DI’s cheek and held open the door to his car.

      “After you, Gregory.”

      “Thank you, Mycroft.”

__________

      “Is that an orangutan?”

Since Lestrade hadn’t had a drink yet and was at least somewhat certain he hadn’t fallen into the Twilight Zone, he hoped Mycroft had a good explanation for the stuffed orange ape sitting proudly in the back seat that didn’t involve insidious forms of psychological torture.

      “Ah yes… a gift.  From dear Arthur.  He had an afternoon at the zoo with Sherlock today and returned with souvenirs for everyone.”

      “Let me guess – Wise Man of the Forest.”

      “Oh very good.  That was exactly Arthur’s reasoning.”

Lestrade should not be as proud as he was of the pleased little smile on Mycroft’s lips, but caring about that was not anywhere near his greatest worry.  Especially since Mycroft extracted a bottle of extremely fine scotch and two crystal glasses from a compartment built into the car and poured a measure for each of them, passing Lestrade’s over just before giving the word for the driver to take them around the city.

      “He sounds like an interesting person.”

Mycroft’s chuckle was warm and lacked the usual bit of distance that often cooled his apparent enjoyment of the moment.

      “ _Interesting_ is a very insufficient word to describe Arthur Shappey.”

      “I’d have to agree if he got Sherlock Holmes to the zoo.”

      “Actually, it was Sherlock’s idea to provide Arthur an opportunity for fresh air and a respite from his caregiving duties.”

It was Lestrade’s turn to chuckle.  The image of Sherlock escorting someone to the zoo out of the goodness of his heart was amusingly _precious_.  And, apparently, it demonstrated that Sherlock could actually take advice.

      “Good for him taking notice that someone could use a rest.  Hate to have to take him over my knee and beat a little consideration into him.”

      “Well, I wish you better luck with that than I had.”

What?  Lestrade moved himself into a more comfortable position in the car and set the orangutan between them.

      “Ok, I’m ready.  Tell.”

      “Pardon me?”

      “Tell.  Spill.  Divulge.  And details are mandatory.”

 This chuckle was warmer than the first and it sent a very comfortable shiver down Lestrade’s spine.

      “I tried _once_ in my youth to give my brother a spanking for his misbehavior.”

      “He must have done something miserable, even for him.”

      “I believed so at the time…”

Lestrade watched as Mycroft’s muscles relaxed a bit and he took a sip of his scotch.

      “I have long realized that personal possessions should never be coveted too highly.  It is a simple thing to have them taken or find them sacrificed to achieve a goal.  However, there are a few that I have treasured.  One was my sole athletic prize from school.  A ferociously ugly plaque, but it represented something very… important to me.”

Athletic prize?  Looking at the lean and lithe figure across from him, Lestrade had trouble placing what sports Mycroft might have played.  Something graceful, no doubt.  Swimming, gymnastics…

      “Wrestling.”

That brought Lestrade’s brain to a crashing halt and he dragged the monkey closer to hide again his apparently recurring problem with spontaneous arousal.  Mycroft in a skin-tight wrestling uniform, sweating and pressing flesh closely with another eager, sweating body…

      “W…wrestling?”

      “Problem?”

      “No!  Not at all… I just… well, with your physique, I would have thought something like… diving or fencing…”

And that smile was one Lestrade would think about when he went to bed tonight.  Mycroft Holmes looked delicious wearing a shyly pleased grin.

      “How gracious of you, Gregory.  However, in my youth… I wore a bit more flesh than I do today, thus Sherlock’s various jabs at my weight are not entirely misplaced.  However, I did fence in my youth, as did my brother.  Not in competition, however.”

      “So, tell me about it?  You must have been good to win a prize.”

      “I must confess that I surprised myself.  Despite my tendency towards a stouter frame, I took pains to demonstrate fine control over my motions.”

      “You mean you were agile.”

      “A good word for it.  And, though it may not appear to be the case, the sport does require strategy and tactics for success.”

      “A natural fit for you.”

      “Thank you, Gregory.  It is a rare thing that my attributes are appreciated so openly.”

Was that flirting?  Was _he_ flirting?  There seemed to be flirting going on in the car and Lestrade hoped to hell he was somehow participating.

      “At the end of the term, there was a small competition between my school and a few others of similar… quality… and I placed in my weight class.”

      “Congrats, Mycroft.  The folks must have been proud.”

      “On the contrary.  I had kept my activities somewhat of a secret and when Mummy found out she nearly had to be sedated.  There was a mention of our little tournament in the newspaper and she did not rest until the editor printed a retraction stating my name was a misprint.  No Holmes was ever going to be linked with something so vulgar.”

The delicious smile was long gone and this one made Lestrade’s innards twist.  It was laden with regret and an unfocused shame that belonged nowhere near the man, or boy, who had worked so hard for something he enjoyed.

      “I’m sorry for that.  Can’t choose who we’re born to, can we?”

      “Succinctly put.  Anyway, young Sherlock decided to test effectiveness of bolts shot from our antique crossbow and my plaque was chosen as his target.  When he completed his experiment, there was barely a discernible letter left in the inscription.”

      “Little bastard.  I’d have wanted to take a switch to skinny arse, too.”

      “That did resemble my plan, however, it was predicated on my being able to actually catch Sherlock and hold him long enough to apply said switch to said skinny arse.”

      “Like chasing and catching an oiled eel?”

      “Infinitely worse.  My mistake was announcing my intentions upfront.  One I have never made again.  I don’t think he actually set foot inside our home for three days, so busy was he trying to elude the various traps and snares I set out for him.”

      “And you mean that literally, don’t you.”

      “I do, indeed.  And a number of them were of his own design, which infuriated him because they could be circumvented so easily.”

Lestrade tried very hard but couldn’t hold back the laughter and was delighted that Mycroft joined in just as heartily.

      “And you, Gregory?  I have no doubt that with your build you were quite the accomplished athlete in your youth.”

Lestrade felt somewhat confident that another level on the flirtation meter had been reached, but with Mycroft Holmes, it was difficult to be completely certain.

      “Played a bit of football.  Track and field for a year or two.  Never settled on one thing for very long.  And it was hard making all the practices what with having to work.”

      “Saving for your first car?”

      “Putting food on the table.  Mum and Dad didn’t have much, so everything I could bring in helped.”

Lestrade mentally kicked himself with combat boots.  What a suave move, highlighting what a peasant he was compared to the man sitting across from him.  He couldn’t even afford a _glass_ of this scotch, if he was ever able to actually gain entrance to an establishment fine enough to serve it.

      “That explains the maturity and sense of responsibility that you bring to your work.  And those traits have been invaluable in your successful handling of Sherlock.  It takes an exceptional person to manage his chaos and you have done a very admirable of job in that regard.”

Lestrade decided he could take that in two ways – pity or more flirtation.  He chose the latter, though he had a tiny and terrible suspicion it might actually be the former.

      “Thanks for that.  We do what we have to, I guess.  Speaking of… how are _you_ handling all of this with your cousin.  Memories can’t be the best.”

Mycroft took a moment to refresh their drinks and the hand he ran through his hair loosened the locks in a way that Lestrade had pictured in his mind on many a lonely occasion.

      “No… those are not my fondest suite of memories, but I take to heart the fact that Sherlock is still with us and making something of himself.  Even dangling his toes in the pool of sentiment from time to time.”

      “Talking about Arthur or John?”

      “Oh, well spotted.  My brother _has_ cultivated a very unexpected attachment to Arthur Shappey, but the true question is what he will allow to bloom between himself and Doctor Watson.  And allow is truly the operative word.”

      “He _does_ have it bad.”

      “However, I am not fully convinced that he realizes it.  A despicable part of me worries that he will never be able to realize it.”

      “Oh, he’s _able_ to realize it.  He just needs a focus to bring all of his observations together into one pretty package.  What we really have to worry about is that the light goes on over his head _after_ he’s sent John running.”

      “Timing is always the most difficult aspect of any endeavor.”

      “Well, maybe this whole business will do it.  Crisis always puts a fresh light on things.  Makes us look at what’s important.  Cleans out the clutter.”

      “Perhaps… this crisis has a few additional _difficulties_ that may sour your noble insight; however, with both John _and_ young Arthur in the domestic mix, it is perhaps not unwarranted to anticipate a change in the proverbial wind.”

      “Just make sure I get an invitation to the wedding.”

      “That will not be necessary, Gregory.  Sherlock, John or both will ask you to stand for them, so your attendance should be considered mandatory.  I will, however, ensure you receive sufficient notice to prepare your speech for the reception.”

Lestrade almost choked on his insanely expensive scotch.  It was not that he doubted Mycroft’s words, because Mycroft Holmes didn’t bend the truth without purpose, it was that he was staggered that he was considered that important in the 221B circle.

      “And… and I suppose you’ll get the duty for the other one.”

      “Perhaps.  However, I have informed Sherlock that my participation in one of, shall we say, life’s little rituals for him, does earn me an exemption from any others.”

      “Come on, Mycroft.  Tuxedo, champagne, wedding cake… photos of Sherlock being forced to publicly proclaim his love and adoration…”

      “You make an excellent point; it is perhaps not entirely impossible that I will find myself in attendance, if only to savor his consternation.”

      “That’s the spirit!  I’ll save you a dance.”

Lestrade wondered how small a ball he could curl into because if he didn’t make a nearly invisible target, he might not see the outside of this car.

      “I rarely dance, Gregory…”

Small, very small… maybe the monkey was bulletproof…

      “… however, I have been known to make exceptions.”

Ok… that was flirting.  And the very knowing smirk on Mycroft’s lips said it was flirting with extreme prejudice.  Lestrade hoped that he could run into the older Holmes out of his usual suit and tie again sometime.  And he didn’t mean _that_ way.  Well, yes he did, but thinking about that might put the loaded Glock back on the table…

      “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Since that about depleted his storehouse of ‘game,’ Lestrade wasn’t entirely upset that Mycroft’s car pulled up to the curb outside his flat at that moment.  He needed to restock his moves if he wanted to pursue this any further… and it was becoming more and more clear that he _did_ want to purse this further…  But, his Mum didn’t raise a boy who ran from a bit of risk…

      “Looks like this is my stop.  I can’t offer anything as nice as your scotch, but I do have a decent bottle of wine inside I haven’t opened yet.”

One brief flash of interest lit up Mycroft’s face, but it was quickly replaced by something more like regret.

      “Would that it were possible, Gregory.  However, I do have several important phone calls to make and my own paper dragons to slay.  Another time, perhaps.”

Well, that was quick and to the point.  But… not a permanent rejection, if Lestrade allowed himself a little optimism.  He stepped out of the car but leaned back in to make his farewells.

      “I understand.  Thanks for the lift.  And for the scotch.  And the company.  I enjoyed it.”

      “As did I.  Enjoy the rest of your evening, Gregory.”

      “You too, Mycroft.  Try not to work too hard.”

      “I never wish for the impossible.  Good night.”

And the door was closed and the car was pulling away.  And Lestrade was left wondering what had actually happened.  A friendly drink?  A little flirting.  Testing the waters… Well, one of the few good things about Sherlock bloody Holmes is that he’d do something sooner, rather than later, to bring Mycroft back into his reach.  Hopefully much sooner than later…


	3. Seeing Things From Both Sides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comments left for this piece have been wonderful. Please keep up the great feedback and poking of my brain... it is much appreciated...

Mycroft waited until Lestrade was on the other side of the closed door to his building and refused to concede that he wanted to make sure the man was safe before letting his driver know to start back to his own home.  This next scotch he poured made no pretension to propriety and was nearly lethal in quantity.

What in the world was he doing?  _Stupid_.  He should have simply returned home as he had planned, but it had been… he’d just wanted… _wanted_.  That was the problem wasn’t it.  Mycroft Holmes was not permitted to want.  Not even for a small morsel of time with someone shouldering his own set of years and responsibilities.  Someone who might empathize.  _Stupid!_   There were colleagues he could have gone to… not that he could have discussed Sherlock or Martin or anything of substance in his life, but they would have been an open ear.  An open ear present because of obligation, the desire to curry favor, the desire to _gain_ a favor, to perhaps gather a little information about _The Iceman_ himself…

Gregory was a very different ear.  No agenda, no expectations… simply a kind and decent man who would sit with a stuffy bureaucrat and share a moment of companionship. As he had been willing to do from the beginning.  Mycroft thought back to the first time he’d seen the Detective Inspector… exhausted, angry, neither of which was unusual for those having to interact with a highly-altered Sherlock.  But he hadn’t looked contemptuous.  Or disgusted.  Or judgmental.  He saw more to the vitriolic junkie than was obvious to all the others who had associated with his brother and, ultimately, made Sherlock see that in himself again.  Just for that he owned Mycroft’s eternal gratitude, but there was more.  Always the question about how _he_ was doing.  The atrocious cup of tea passed over when he’d waited to secure Sherlock’s release from custody or while waiting for Sherlock to regain consciousness after one of his endless binges.  The attempts to brighten his mood, the casual jokes and the proximity… standing near while they braced to hear the news from the doctor standing in front of them with the concerned expression and the chart labeled with his brother’s name.

And it hadn’t stopped.  Mycroft had predicted that when Sherlock finally brought his life out of the gutter that his association with Lestrade would end, but he could not have been more wrong.  He could never have predicted that the method though which Sherlock would find purpose again was through the Detective Inspector’s intervention.  And continued intervention.  And not only for Sherlock.  Though a deeper realization of the length of Mycroft’s reach had dampened Lestrade’s easy friendliness, it was not something Mycroft could fault.  The man understood chain of command, even if he felt it did not always work to the advantage of a situation.  A feeling Mycroft heartily supported.  And dampened did not mean _erased_.

But what right did Mycroft have to believe such cordiality meant anything deeper?  And to behave so shamelessly!  Telling him stories... it was not actually necessary to provide the true specifics about his displeasure with Sherlock.  Was he attempting to impress?  With what?  Certainly not his athletic prowess.  How would his single-term wrestling experience compare to a man who likely excelled at every of the sports he tried.  One look at him and one would know that he would be an illustrious athlete.  One of those boys who was well-liked by his teammates, both for his skills and for his camaraderie.

_But he **had** been impressed._

Balderdash.  There was a substantial difference between esteem and polite interest.

_Polite interest does not extend to an invitation to dance._

Affable joshing.

_And the invitation to his flat.  For wine._

It was reasonable to conclude that the Detective Inspector himself was sometimes at a loss for a companionable ear.  At least one capable of offering intelligent discourse.  Thank heavens the man had the courtesy not to comment on his unseemly behavior.  And, Mycroft felt confident, he would also make no comment to anyone else, particularly Sherlock.  For in no manner could the Detective Inspector have taken his ramblings seriously.  How could he?  What did someone like him have to offer a person as vibrant and interesting as Lestrade?  The superficial benefits he could present would not be sufficient for someone of substance.  Someone of integrity and firm sense of self.  Suddenly, Mycroft had an extraordinarily uncomfortable revelation concerning his brother’s relationship with John Watson.  Poor Sherlock… he could at least try and convince his brother that what he had to offer was worthwhile.  That John _needed_ what Sherlock could provide and that he could actually contribute positively in the relationship.  Something he himself could never do with a person like Gregory Lestrade.  He had nothing to offer that the man would want.  And behaving in such a tawdry fashion would only offer a false promise, something he respected the Detective Inspector far too much ever to do.

      “We’re here, sir.”

So they were.  His beautiful home.  Where no one waited.  Where few even entered except for the most sensitive matters of state.  But that was the way it should be.  His life was sold to others many, many years ago, for the most noble purposes and without regret… but sometimes… exceedingly rare times… Mycroft wondered what it would be like if there _more_ …  The same _more_ he desperately wished for his brother, Sherlock.

__________

Lestrade let the door shut behind him before letting out the enormous breath he’d been holding.  Since his back never became intimate with a bullet or his head with a light-proof black hood, he assumed that Mycroft hadn’t suffered a change of heart about their impromptu meeting.  Which put a little pep in his step as he walked into his kitchen for a beer.  Not that he wanted to wash away the life-altering flavor of the fine scotch he had sampled, but to have something to use to toast his good fortune.  Mycroft Holmes… _Mycroft Holmes_ flirted with him in his lovely car while they drank lovely scotch and talked about lovely things.  Resisting the urge to run a hand down the front of his trousers to confirm that he had not turned into a teenage girl in the last few minutes, Lestrade sipped his beer and wondered where to go from here.  Nothing too forward… a man like Mycroft appreciated subtlety and refinement.  So, no bunch of balloons with a big card saying “Let’s Date!”  Though, Mycroft did seem to very much treasure his stuffed orangutan…

No, subtle and steady-on.  A text here and there.  A compliment tossed out now and then.  Step up the frequency of their meeting for tea.  Repeat his offer for a little wine, maybe at a nice pub this time.  He’d need new clothes! Everything in his closet was crap and that opinion had been offered by more than one person recently.  After the divorce, he’d had no time, money or motivation to update his wardrobe but now… just a few little things.  Some nice trousers, a few shirts in some nice dark colors to set off his old-man’s hair, maybe a decent jacket so he didn’t have to rely on his windbreaker all of the time.  But it would still be crap wouldn’t it… Lestrade was almost certain that the contents of his flat cost less than one of Mycroft’s suits.  No matter what he did he’d still be a bit like Oliver Twist with his bowl in his hands, but there wasn’t anything for it.  Mycroft knew what a copper’s salary was like, knew his family situation… and he’d still offered up a twinkle in his eye.

Anyway, Gregory Lestrade was not one to back down from a challenge.  He might be working-class, but he was smart, fun, well-read and could hold his own in most conversations… admittedly the two Holmes brothers were the exception, but he’d done a fine job with Mycroft tonight. Maybe he couldn’t discuss Proust with any authority, but really… who’d want to?  Besides, he’d made the man laugh and that wasn’t something he thought many people could do.  At least not _truly_ laugh.  And Mycroft would be one person who’d understand the hours of the job, or lack thereof.  How nice would that be?  Seeing a man who understood when you didn’t come home at night, when you were too tired to do much besides eat and fall sleep... and who knew that, sometimes, you just couldn’t talk about the details of your day.   Either because you couldn’t or you really, really didn’t want to.  Yeah, Mycroft could be a good one for him.

And he hadn’t even started thinking with the little head yet, either…

__________

When the phone rang the following morning, Lestrade felt only a tiny bit silly that he’d hoped it was Mycroft, but was not at all surprised when it was work and more of the normal day to day.  Body found, investigation started, on we go… at least he was going in a direction that had a respectable stop to get a cup of coffee and send a quick text to Mycroft.

_Had fun last night.  We should do that again sometime. – GL_

Not too girly.  Good man-to-man text.  Could be sending it to John after a night out for a few.  Feeling good about things, Lestrade arrived at the crime scene and not even the dismembered corpse could put a damper on his mood.  Poor guy looked to have been cut up after he was dead, so lucky break there, right?  And so what if he was humming a little tune?  People didn’t have to look at him like he was crazy, did they?  Must be jealousy at his bit of happiness.  Cranky bunch…

      “You could have informed me you were called out.”

And good morning, Sherlock.

      “Got a little caught up in the, I don’t know, mutilated body over there.  Sorry about that.”

Sherlock eyed him with that blasted evil eye and grumbled in thought.

      “You’re happy.”

      “Aren’t I always.”

      “No.”

      “No?”

      “No.  Even less so since your divorce was finalized.”

      “Huh… thought I was the poster boy for chipper.”

      “If ‘chipper’ is an animal of some form, then it _is_ possible.”

      “Another joke?”

      “I’ve been spending too much time with Arthur.”

      “Arthur of the Jungle?”

      “What does that mean?”

      “Saw Mycroft’s monkey.”

Sherlock was completely thrown by that admission, both that the DI had seen his brother recently and that Mycroft had allowed the toy to be seen by _anyone_.

      “It is properly classified as an ape.”

      “Monkey, ape… they’ll all work together to chuck Charlton Heston in a cage, anyway.”

      “What _are_ you talking about?”

      “Never mind… and it’s just a nice day!  Sun is sort of shining, air’s fairly clear…”

      “Did you participate in a romantic encounter last evening.”

      “What?  No!  I mean… no.”

      “It was a reasonable conclusion, though I am not surprised.  If you were forced to interact with Mycroft early in the evening, especially in those… clothes, your eyes would have required washing to proceed out for an assignation.”

      “Hey!  Mycroft cut a fine figure in his dress-downs.  Maybe it was weird to you because you haven’t seen him like that before but…”

      “But you have.”

      “More than a few times, actually.  Even had to trade shirts once since his got destroyed by what should have stayed inside your stomach and he hadn’t brought a jacket like I had.

Sherlock had hoped that he would not receive confirmation about Mycroft’s visits during his bout with drugs… at least not those visits of which his brain had no memory.  And the vision of a half-clad brother anywhere near another human was positively sickening.  Hopefully, Lestrade had been spared the horrific barge-sized expanses of pasty, white flesh… 

      “Now, why don’t you go home and do some good.  That cold case will wait until later.”

      “Firstly, the cold case is a far secondary concern compared to your current investigation.  Secondly… I am avoiding the flat at the moment.”

      “Sherlock, you don’t have to hide from your cousin…”

      “I’m hiding from John.”

      “What’d you do?”

      “Why do you assume _I_ did something?”

      “Because on one hand there’s John.  And on the other hand there’s you.  The other hand always wins.”

      “That has exceeded your normal daily measure of nonsense.”

      “What. Did. You. Do?”

Lestrade had not seen a hesitant Sherlock in a very long time and a thread of worry began to wind through this skin.

      “I… may have…”

      “Just say it, Sherlock.”

      “I may have… given John flowers.”

How his hearing could have failed him so quickly and without warning had to be a medical anomaly.  Lestrade shuffled his feet a little to make sure he was still awake and addressed the slightly pink-cheeked detective.

      “You gave John Watson flowers?”

      “Yes.”

      “On purpose?”

      “No, I accidentally roamed the neighborhood with a torch finding blossoms that were appropriate for presenting to him.”

      “You… picked him flowers?  Sherlock Holmes, you romantic bastard.  Well done, mate!”

      “Are you being serious?”

Dealing with Sherlock required a delicate touch sometimes.

      “Yes, I’m being very serious.  Picked flowers are better than bought ones any day.  Shows a lot more thought and effort.  John is going to be putty in your hands after this.”

      “That is a disturbing image.”

      “I mean, he’ll be so happy and besotted that… you’ve got yourself a significant other, I’ll wager.  About time, too.  I’m sure John was getting fed up waiting for you to get your head out of your arse and make a move.”

      “He… he was?”

      “Look Sherlock… I spent many an evening sitting and watching John refill his empty pint with big, rolling tears.  You don’t do that for someone who’s just a friend.  Even a best friend.  Hell, most people’s family don’t rate a good cry in the beer.  Not that he said anything specifically, or maybe he did I just couldn’t make it out what with all the blubbering, but… he’d been hopeful.  Then you died and killed the hope.  Now you’re back and… you don’t stop hoping just like that.  Or waiting.  Or wanting.  You did a good thing, lad.  A very good, very smart thing.  So, there’s no reason to hide out here with us lot.  Take John out for a spot of lunch or a film to go with his flowers, bit of romance with his petunias.”

Lestrade could tell Sherlock was desperately trying to process and organize the information he’d received and decided that maybe… he did need to hide out for a little while.  It would be a terrible shame for him to barrel back to John and cock up the most romantic gesture he might ever make in his lifetime.

      “But… we can always use a hand here, if you want to throw in.”

      “It is not a matter of want, Lestrade, it is a matter of need.  _Your_ need.  Look at what Anderson is doing… I expect there will be tongue prints on that leg in a moment if I do not intercede.”

      “Then lay on, Macduff.”

Sherlock took a few steps towards the center of the crime scene before stopping and turning around, simply staring at Lestrade.

      “Yes, you really did well, son.  No go on and have a good time.  Put you in a fine mood when you get back home to John.”

The very tiny grin on Sherlock’s face, that actually reached his eyes, warmed the DI from head to toe.  Baby steps… they were taking baby steps, but Sherlock would get there eventually…

__________

_Your brother dropped by.  Got flowers for John! – GL_

_Picked flowers, I should say.  Not just got. – GL_

_That’s cause for celebration. -  GL_

_Care to join me? – GL_

**8 hours later**

_Still looking to celebrate if you’d like.  Got a day or time in mind?”_

**12 more hours later**

_Hi Mycroft, it’s Greg.  Just checking in.  Haven’t seen Sherlock so I’m crossing my fingers he’s tangled up in filthy sheets with a particular Army doctor.  I’ve got time for tea today, if you’re looking for a break.  Or… there’s a nice little place opened up that serves wonderful Moroccan.  I’ll probably get that for take-away tonight, but if you’d like to share, I’d enjoy the company.  Or some other day.  No problem, I know how it is.  So, umm…. yeah, bye.”_

**12 more hours later**

      “Well, Moroccan for one.  Lucky me.”

__________

Mycroft read over Lestrade’s texts.  And over again.  And listened to his voice message.  Several times.  The man sounded so… optimistic.  So exuberant and vital.  So happy for Sherlock and John… and why shouldn’t he be?  Mycroft nearly lapsed into paralysis learning what his brother had done, spontaneously and with extremely good judgment in one of his most difficult areas, but what still thrummed through his battle-weary bones was contentment.  He could ask for nothing more and no one better for Sherlock and in John Watson he’d found a person to whom he could comfortably cede some of the responsibility for his troublesome sibling.  Between the two of them, it should be a tad easier to manage Sherlock’s stochastic influence on the world.

Between the three of them, that is.  This was yet another reason Mycroft had to keep his distance from Lestrade.  Right now, Sherlock was being assisted by a human tripod of support and Mycroft knew that a disruption of that, in any way, would not be good for his brother.  John – the friend and lover.  Lestrade – the father figure.  Himself – the mortal enemy to rail against when he had no one else at whom to slash when he was overwhelmed, defeated or unmoored.  The structure of their dynamic was not one with which Mycroft was going to tamper and entering into a doomed-to-fail relationship with Lestrade would most certainly disrupt that structure.  Shatter it, without doubt, when Lestrade realized exactly who he really was.  And wasn’t.  They would still take tea occasionally, for discussions of strategy and share observations and analyses but… that was all.

But now was not the time to engage in pointless speculation of what could have been.  Reality was the only state of mind Mycroft was permitted and the reality of his life had no place for Gregory Lestrade.  Mycroft looked at his watch and noticed that he had precious little time to prepare for his upcoming visitor.  Dear, dear Arthur… the one and only person he had ever met for whom reality gladly shifted to fit his  innocent and unique perceptions and beliefs.  Such a perfect match for his cousin.  Every shred of unconditional love Martin had lacked in his life was about to be repaid ten-fold.

__________

So many people envied Mycroft Holmes.  His wealth, his status, his nearly limitless authority… Mycroft sat in his gloriously comfortable chair, with his very old and very fine sherry and greatly envied the man sitting across from him.  Barely a moment had passed that Arthur had not filled with his boundless joy and unguarded appreciation of… everything.  Large or small, Arthur found wonder in all of it.  That… that was truly a thing to be envied…

      “So, Skip and I are boyfriends and so are Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Watson, which is the most brilliant thing ever… do you have someone, Mycroft?  Well, I’m sure you’ve got lots of dates because you’re smart and funny and kind and take care of people and you look quite nice… I mean, well, I had this talk with Mr. Sherlock about rocks and I was thinking about what kind of rock you would be and I’m not sure… I mean, even though diamonds are supposed to be the best… Doctor Watson, not that I was supposed to be eavesdropping because I wasn’t and I can’t help it if sound actually travels through air, but anyway Doctor Watson made a very good argument that other rocks are even better than diamonds.  I think I’ve decided you’re one of those amazing stones I saw when we were in Canada this one time.  It looked like a brilliant blue butterfly wing if you looked at it one way and like a beautiful new green leaf if you looked at it a different way.  And other ways made it look gold like… well, gold… and even sort of orangey but a red orangey so it was a special orange.  It had a strange name, like a dog, but I don’t remember which one which is really strange since I tend to remember things about dogs…”

      “Could it be labradorite?”

      “Yes!  Brilliant!  Like a Labrador Retriever!  Did you know they have different ones of those?  Golden ones and chocolate ones and then there’s the ones they marry to poodles so their babies are labradoodles, which is the best name for any kind of dog in the whole world…”

And on he went, very much to Mycroft’s delight.  Labradorite, hmmm… A very complex stone, it could be quite plain and dull looked at from one perspective, and sharp with fire when held a slightly different way.  Mycroft could find no fault with the analogy.  It was actually quite the compliment… and a very creative compliment, at that.

      “So, do you?”

Ah… now what was the point of this conversation?  Oh, why expend the energy…

      “Pardon?”

      “Do you have someone?  Someone special?  Like Skip for me and Doctor Watson for Mr. Sherlock?  You know… someone you fancy?”

      “Though I’m sure you will be disappointed, I am far too old and busy to have someone to ‘fancy.’ “

      “Nah… that’s not true.  You can’t be too old or too busy to fancy someone.  I mean, look at Mum!  She’s very old and very busy, but she’s fancies Herc and I do mean fancies in the whole ‘sometimes she’s very happy when we have an overnight and she’s not flying on GERTI’ kind of fancies.  And you’re very smart so you know that already, even though you haven’t met Mum, which means you’re trying to hide something.  So, who are they?”

No wonder Arthur and Sherlock got along so well… they both had an uncanny ability to notice exactly that from which you were trying to divert their attention.

      “I am being quite honest with you, Arthur.  Transparent, even.  There is no, as they say, _special someone_ , in my life.  However, if it makes you happier to know, I did enjoy a nice evening with a friend quite recently.”

      “Oh!  You had a night out with a mate!  Those are a lot of fun, aren’t they?  So, who are they?  Do they work for the government, too?  Did you have them in for sherry?”

For every deflection, Arthur would counter with an additional five probing questions, so expediency would be best met by truth.

      “Gregory is a member of the police force.  A Detective Inspector to be precise.  And we indulged in a bit of scotch instead of the sherry we now share.”

      “Would I like scotch?”

      “Under no circumstances.”

      “Right then.  I’m thankful for my nice sherry!  And he sounds very nice!  I mean, he’s a policeman and they are nice and helpful and keep us safe, even though they didn’t find Skip and Mr. Sherlock and I had to do it ourselves.  And he’s got to be very smart and interesting if he’s friends with you.  Will I get to meet him?  I think he’d be someone I’d very much like.”

Arthur would adore Lestrade.  And Lestrade would... adoration was not even near the word for what he’d feel for young Arthur.  One more chick for their nest…  Mycroft took a breath and deleted the preceding thought from his mind.  There was no _their_ and never would be… life was as it was, even though he would never deny that the man was exactly as Arthur described him.

      “He _is_ a very worthwhile person, Arthur.  A great friend to both myself and Sherlock, as well as Doctor Watson.  I do not know if you will be able to meet during this trip, but perhaps sometime in the future.  I have no doubt he would be delighted to get to know you.”

      “Brilliant!  I can try and find Mr. Snowball a nice policeman’s hat as another little memory of this trip.  That’ll have to do until I can meet your friend.  And your other friends too!  I love meeting new people…”

Other friends… how amusing…

      “We shall look into that for the future, Arthur… you have my word.”

      “Hurray!  And if you give your word, that’s like… I’m sure you’d curl up and vanish in a big puff of smoke if you didn’t keep your word.  That’s because you’re a brilliant person and keep an eye on people.  You can’t keep your eye on people very well and take care of them if you’re not a good and trustworthy person.”

Mycroft knew that he would use every last pound in his accounts and every last bit of his strength to keep Arthur from every finding out just how far from the truth that truly was.

      “Thank you, Arthur… now, shall I refill your glass?”

      “Yes!  Thanks so much, Mycroft.  We can do this again sometime, can’t we?  Because I am having a wonderful time and I really like having wonderful times.”

      “Whenever you’d like, dear boy.  My door will always be open for you.”

And, looking at Arthur’s large and purely innocent smile, Mycroft hoped that the boy would never hesitate to walk through that door.


	4. One Can Always Be Civil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a short update, but something longer will appear this weekend. Thanks for all who are leaving such thoughtful comments and kudos! Keeps the words flowing much, much easier...

_It appears you were not incorrect. – SH_

_Oh.  Are you dying?  Deathbed confession? – GL_

_Sarcasm is for simpletons. – SH_

_Explains a lot, doesn’t it ;-) – GL_

_Do not use that ridiculous thing when texting me :-( - SH_

_Mr. Jokey Joke strikes again.  John’s a lucky man. – GL_

_I believe that to be the case.  The LSO and dinner is a fine evening out. – SH_

_OMG, you ARE dying.  I’ve loved you like a son, lad. – GL_

_And a long walk after.  There may have been the holding of hands. – SH_

_Was John holding his own? – GL_

_My date was supremely successful.  And, at least I HAD a date. – SH_

_Oh, low blow.  Felt that right in the bollocks. – GL_

_Rather the point. – SH_

_I’ll have you know, I do have my eye on someone. – GL_

_Someone living? – SH_

_Ghoul.  Actually, I can’t answer that confidently. – GL_

_At least it’s possible you choose partners from the living. – SH_

_Mycroft’s dalliances are most assuredly members of the living dead. – SH_

Mycroft’s dalliances…Lestrade was a little ashamed that he hadn’t pictured the man with a romantic life, at least one that did not involve him.

_Hordes or the occasional bloodsucker? – GL_

_For some reason, a good number of persons are willing participants. – SH_

_Though I do suspect mind-altering drugs are involved. – SH_

Lots, then… Lestrade took a deep breath and let flow away the hopeful confidence that Mycroft’s failure to reply to any of his communications was simply due to work concerns.  Nothing says ‘not interested’ like a healthy dating life that you’re not allowed to join in on.

_Be nice.  Mycroft’s a good catch if you think about it. – GL_

_I try not to.  Why would you even say that? – SH_

_Just pointing out that he’s not poor, filthy, brain-dead or troll-faced. – GL_

_He will not remedy your so-called dry spell.  You are not of his circle. – SH_

Didn’t Lestrade know it?  He’d thought that, just maybe, it didn’t matter, but… not the first time he’d been wrong.

_Yeah, thanks for that.  Congrats on you and John.  We’ll talk more, yeah? – GL_

_We speak nearly every day.  Why would that change? – SH_

_Not what I meant, but ok.  Later. – GL_

Sherlock stared at his phone and felt an indefinable scratching in his brain that he’d somehow, somewhere done something wrong…

__________

Lestrade spent the rest of his day ignoring the pang in his chest and put his best smiling face out there for his team to see.  Chatted up the counter girl when he stopped for lunch and the new boy in the filing area, both half his age, but both flattered enough by the attention that they at least didn’t shove him away with a pitchfork and chainsaw.  He fired off a quick text to John asking if he needed condoms delivered and made sure no one was around when he got _that_ reply.

One full day of slog and one well-deserved ending of his day at a reasonable hour.  He’d picked up a new paperback the other day that looked interesting.  Or sleep… sleep sounded very interesting, too.  Things he didn’t experience often were always interesting.  Ultimately, Lestrade’s evening was a combination of both, reading on the couch until he fell asleep, not even waking when the book fell to the floor with a tidy thump.  When his mobile sounded, it was only the never-sleeping police portion of his brain that heard the noise.

      “What?”

      “Detective Inspector?”

      “Christ… sorry.  Lestrade, here.”

      “I am very sorry to bother you at home, Detective Inspector, but a situation has arisen that requires some haste in its solution.”

Mycroft.  Mycroft, go-date-all-the-suits-you-want-you-bastard, Holmes.  And, of course, he needed a favor.

      “What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft couldn’t stop the wince at Lestrade’s formal address but… well, he had started it, hadn’t he…

      “There has been a development with my cousin’s recovery that has prompted him to leave Sherlock’s flat, without a clear and stated destination.”

      “He did a runner.”

      “Quite so.”

      “Is he clean?”

      “For the moment; however, I am not confident that will remain the case.”

      “Yeah, it’s a fair bet he’ll be out looking for something.  This ‘development’ was a pretty hard knock, wasn’t it?”

Lestrade knew from the silence at the other end of the call that the answer was a resounding ‘yes.’

      “A variety of very old slights and injuries were brought out into the open and… loyalties were also called into question.  Martin did not take the experience well.”

      “Wonder why?  Ok, so you want me out looking for him.”

      “I already have men assigned to that task, though any additional assistance would be appreciated.  I would ask that… if it is possible, in the case of an apprehension by the authorities, that I be informed immediately.”

      “Before he’s processed, you mean.”

      “It is not unprecedented.”

No, it certainly wasn’t.  Sherlock’s police file would be a good deal thicker if Lestrade hadn’t interceded on occasion and had him turned over to Mycroft with nothing but a stern warning.

      “I’ll do what I can.”

      “Thank you, Gre… Detective Inspector.  I’ll send you the contact information for someone in the field you may reach if you have need.  If you can think of anything that might be helpful.”

      “Yeah, you do that.  Goodbye, Mister Holmes.  And good luck.”

      “Enjoy your evening, Detective Inspector.”

Mycroft refused to acknowledge the slight tremor in his hand as he ended the call.  He would not have predicted how… soothing Lestrade’s voice would sound.  Not that Mycroft needed soothing, the mere thought was ludicrous; however… however.  Now, he needed a moment to ensure rooms were prepared for his upcoming house guests and that their needs were attended to properly.  Mycroft knew his home was exquisitely designed to please the eye, but besides his personal living areas, there was little concession to comfort.  Fortunately, he employed individuals who were quite skilled at creating any environment he might require, and at extremely short notice.

__________

Lestrade wished he was a stronger man so that his fingers would have crushed his phone like in a terrible film.  The only good thing about the call was that it cemented in his mind what was his relationship with Mycroft Holmes.  Nothing.  Master and slave doesn’t count as a relationship outside of sex clubs, so they were absolutely nothing.  What he was to Mycroft was someone to make manipulating the working stiffs on the police force a little easier.  Clean up messes that didn’t warrant clandestine use of government funds.  Ok… now Lestrade really did feel like a teenage girl.  Moping over a man he’d never even escorted out for the evening.

A few phone calls later and Martin Crieff would at least be spared a formal arrest if he was picked up for a drugs charge.  With that in hand, Lestrade lay back down on his couch to try and fall back to sleep, but the more he tried to rest, the more something kept nagging at his consciousness.  This Holmes cousin wasn’t from London, so he probably didn’t have any idea about the city’s drug scene.  And, Mycroft would surely have stopped any action on a credit or debit card if Martin tried to take out cash.  Assuming he made a run at the head of some bit of argument, he probably had little money at the ready.  So… he was in an unfamiliar city, with limited funds.  Once and, as far as Lestrade knew, only once Sherlock had found himself in a similar situation, as least as far as funds were concerned.  Broke and with none of his dealers wanting to extend credit for someone whose brother had cut off his allowance, he’d gone and purchased a large quantity of appallingly-cheap alcohol and tried to substitute one high for another.  After a brush with alcohol poisoning, several hours head first in the toilet and a taste in his mouth that lingered for over a week, Lestrade was able to keep Sherlock in line for a good month just by just waving a flask in his face.

A quick check of his phone showed that the field contact information had been emailed to him and he placed a quick call to an unnamed voice telling them to scour any location offering alcohol for sale… cheap, plentiful alcohol… and concentrate the search in a radius around Sherlock’s flat.  An angry, desperate person takes care of priorities first and getting trashed would likely rank higher on Martin’s list than scurrying off to hide in the bowels of the city.  His information was taken, he was blandly thanked and, with nothing else to do, he tried again to get to sleep.  This time, Lestrade succeeded.

__________

At least Martin was safe.  Mycroft surveyed the remains of the men who had brought his tranquilized cousin to his home and made a mental note to add a little bonus to their pay for allowing Martin to do a notable amount of damage without suffering any retribution.  Accepting a trouncing by a short, petulant man, even a Holmes man, would try the patience of even the most highly-trained operative.

Mycroft looked at the bottle of industrial-quality vodka in his hand and said a silent thank you to a god he didn’t believe in that Martin had held strong against what must have been nearly overpowering urges to throw his recovery into the fire and jump in nakedly after it.

      “Mr. Holmes?  Do you require anything else?”

      “Ah… no.  Excellent work.  I am quite impressed by the alacrity of your success.”

      “To be honest, sir, it would have taken far longer, but the liaison from the Yard gave us a tip to check in the vicinity of off-licenses moving outward from Baker Street.  We found Mr. Crieff fourteen blocks over, sitting on the front stoop of a shoe shop that was closed for the evening.  I was rather surprised he defended his ‘package’ with such vigor.  Not to be disrespectful, but I wouldn’t use that to clean out my drains.”

Liaison… and once again, Gregory Lestrade steps in to keep his family safe and does it better than men at a higher pay-grade than he would likely ever see on the force.  And, as always, did it without a worry about thanks or praise or recompense of any form.  Yes, he should find some avenue to arrange a meeting between Lestrade and Arthur.  Two decent, honest, kind-hearted men, who cared deeply about the welfare of others… Arthur would likely come away with his own hat, badge, handcuffs, a fabricated Wanted flyer with a photograph of his anguished face pressed between the bars of a holding cell and a ride in a vehicle with full siren and lights.

      “Are we dismissed, sir?”

Woolgathering…. the sure sign of a depleted mind…

      “Yes, with my appreciation.”

One man walked back towards the room in which Martin was placed a led out several more, leaving Mycroft with two longer-term guests.  And he should… _should_ make a call to the Detective Inspector to deliver his thanks for the assistance.  However, it was late and Lestrade would have an early morning, if his normal work patterns were predictive.  Better to wait until a more opportune time.  It _was_ more considerate that way.

__________

Lestrade refused to allow himself to call and find out about Martin’s situation when he woke.  If everything was fine, then… well done.  If not, Mycroft would have called for another favor.  And with a mountain of paper still plotting to put him in an early grave, other matters demanded his attention.  But he did need to stop fingering his phone.  A full breakfast and several cups of coffee that could be used to strip paint and Lestrade was headed to the Yard to start another day of death, destruction, mayhem and Anderson.  No need to add any Holmes nonsense to the mix.

Lestrade lasted an hour after arriving in his office before text John for an update.

_Did you find Martin? – GL_

_How did you know about Martin? – JW_

_Oh wait – Mycroft? – JW_

_Yeah, called for a favor.  Keep him out of jail. – GL_

_It’s what you’re good for. – JW_

_Seems to be the extent of it. – GL_

_Everything ok? – JW_

_Smashing.  He’s in good shape, right? – GL_

_Yeah, they found him pretty quickly.  Stopped to buy crap vodka. – JW_

_Figured.  Glad the commandos listened. – GL_

_Your idea? – JW_

_Surprised? – GL_

_No, just… yes. – JW_

_Ask Sherlock. – GL_

_Not talking to him. – JW_

_Tiff? – GL_

_Might be a permanent one. – JW_

Fuck.  Lestrade could not believe that Sherlock and John had already had a knock-down-drag-out.

_Nah, just growing pains. – GL_

_It’s not that simple.  This is bad. – JW_

_Want to get a pint?  Have a chat? – GL_

_Can’t.  Taking care of Martin. – JW_

_I can drop by the flat after work. – GL_

_We’re staying at Mycroft’s actually. – JW_

Well, that put a quick end to that idea.

_Then you don’t really need me.  Give a call if something comes up, though. – GL_

_Sure you’re ok? – JW_

_Ok as always.  Take care John and don’t do anything you’ll regret. – GL_

_Trying not to, mate. – JW_

__________

Lestrade stared at his phone and kicked himself mentally for being a grump over what really amounted to nothing when John and Martin had real problems.  Once John left Mycroft’s house, he’d drag the man out for a night out like they used to have when Sherlock was playing dead.  Eat greasy snacks, drink cheap beer and make a list of their fantasy harems based on surrounding bar patrons, even if, god willing, John was back with Sherlock. Anyway, there was plenty of paper to occupy Lestrade until then and if he didn’t start now, there’d be paper to tide him over until he passed on to a better world.  Of course, they’d probably pile the unfinished business into the coffin with him so he’d be burdened in the great hereafter, too.

__________

Mycroft kept a partial eye on the situation at his home while the rest of his eye was on the Empire.  He read through the intercepted texts between his brother and John and was genuinely surprised by the emotion that seemed to leap from the screen of his mobile.  Sherlock actually found it within himself to communicate about his feelings in a way that was both informative and meaningful and Mycroft was certain the effect on John would be profound.  While John Watson had every reason to be angry and worried and Mycroft would be _more_ concerned if the man didn’t pull back from Sherlock after the revelations he’d received, the probability that the good doctor would actually sever ties with his brother were quite slim.  John had been a shell, a completely empty shell before he met Sherlock and now he had regained the critical attributes of life – vitality, purpose, challenge.  Some would add ‘love’ to the list, but Mycroft Holmes refused to stoop to weepy romanticism.  John would not easily relinquish his grip on those treasures and would apply his dogged determination to finding some way to reconcile with both his sense of conscience and his desired partner.  Humans were quite predictable in this area and John Watson would most certainly not disappoint.

When the notification came of the delivery of Arthur’s letter to Martin, Mycroft permitted himself a few free minutes to pour himself a very small sherry and toast the young man’s dedication to the person he adored.  A letter… how delightfully old-fashioned and suffused with layers of meaning.  A perfect vehicle to lay open his heart for Martin to examine and re-examine, as Mycroft was sure his cousin would do.  Martin Crieff was nothing if not somewhat obsessive about issues that were important to him.

As Mycroft replaced the sherry, he noticed the fine bottle of vodka in his office’s collection of spirits and allowed himself to experience the sharp stab of guilt for failing to convey his thanks to Lestrade for his valuable assistance in Martin’s reclamation.  His own men would have found Martin at some point, but an intoxicated, angry, betrayed Martin loose in London could easily have become a deceased Martin in very short order.  Mycroft’s finger hovered over his mobile and… continued to hover.  He had made decisions and taken actions that would make one of the fabled lords of hell pale and demur, yet he was finding it difficult to place a call to a simple policeman to say thank you. It was a further several seconds before he finally tapped the appropriate contact to reach the Detective Inspector’s mobile.

      “Lestrade.”

      “Hello, Detective Inspector.  I trust I find you well?”

Few would have noticed the pause before Lestrade answered, but Mycroft knew well the man’s speech patterns and was always on alert for the uncharacteristic.

      “Fine.  How went the mission?  John said Martin’s back in custody.”

      “Not quite the word I would use for temporarily residing in a comfortable home with all of his needs lavishly met, but the essence of your statement is correct.”

      “Good to hear.  Did you want anything else?”

Fewer still would have noticed the tension in the man’s voice.  Without further information from which to speculate, Mycroft would have to attribute the slightly curt tone to overwork or general frustration with police bureaucracy.

      “Actually, yes.  Your assistance was invaluable; I was informed about your insights and they were critical in quickly locating my cousin.  I wanted to offer my thanks for that.”

      “Just doing my job.”

      “You never _just_ do your job, Detective Inspector and that has benefited my family on numerous occasions.  Do not think I take it for granted.”

Of course not, Lestrade thought.  Mycroft was probably very happy to have a pet copper on his leash.

      “Don’t worry about it.  Really.  You know I’ve got Sherlock and John’s backs and that won’t ever change.  And that goes for anyone that gets tossed into pot with them.  Now, if there’s nothing more, I’ve got a desk full of work to tend to…”

Mycroft absolutely despised having a poor grip on a situation.  Normally, he could simply bluff, affect a touch more omniscience than was the case or dangle a well-placed bit of vagueness that could be interpreted in so many ways his opponent often showed their hand trying to dig to the root of his meaning.  However… damn Gregory Lestrade!  Something was amiss with the man and it was eating at Mycroft like a glutton with a filet mignon.  That degree of imbalance would bear the blame for what he did next.

      “I completely understand.  However, if you have time tomorrow afternoon, perhaps we may meet for tea?  I would be happy to provide more details about my familial situation at it currently stands.  Perhaps put Martin’s actions into perspective.  I understand if you cannot commit, however.”

Lestrade’s first instinct was to use two words that rhymed with ‘duck shoe,’ but something held him back.  Mostly it was a realization that he was an adult and there was no reason to be uncivil.  He would have to deal with Mycroft Holmes for a very long time and maintaining a cordial relationship would make things much easier in the long run.  But… there was that tiny, traitorous piece of himself that just wanted to see Mycroft again.  He’d have to find that piece and dig it out, but that would take a few days, so he’d have to make do for now.

      “I should be able to do that.  Can’t promise the job won’t take my legs out from under me, but you know what that’s like.”

Mycroft nobly forgave his body the pleasure he felt with Lestrade’s agreement to his proposal because it was a construct of simple earth and water, but he would not forgive his mind for its gross betrayal.

      “I do, to my eternal grief.  I shall leave you to your toil, Detective Inspector, but I do look forward to tomorrow.”

      “Me too, Mr. Holmes.”

Lestrade gave himself an inner thumbs-up for ending the call first and turned his mind away from his administrative tasks to something nicer.  A quiet cup of tea in a cozy café.  Didn’t matter at all that it was Mycroft Holmes that would be across the table from him.  That was completely irrelevant.  It was simply nice to have something to actually look forward to for once…


	5. And What Spoils for the Bold?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wonderful comments from wonderful people... thank you all so very much...

Mycroft sat in the small café, a few minutes before the time he’d set this morning to meet with the Detective Inspector.  And what a very, very long morning it had been.  Truly, it was simply a continuation of yesterday morning since he’d yet to see his very comfortable bed.  Not that the situation, in itself, was unusual since he required even less sleep than his brother, but rarely had his lack of sleep been so marked by such strange and amusing circumstances.  Securing his cousin’s happiness had been easier than he’d expected, but only because of the single-minded persistence of Arthur Shappey.  For such a sweet and affable young man, he had the tenacity of a barnacle on a barge and that would be a necessity for a life with Martin, who often fell victim to indecisiveness and second-guessing.  And their little bit of stage work on the bridge… what an amusing way to reunite the broken couples.  Of course, no one had to know how much fun Mycroft had enjoyed with the playacting.  The last time he’d done such a thing, the outcome had _not_ been as amusing.  His leg still ached on some very inclement days from the damage.

      “I’m not late, am I, Mr. Holmes?”

      “Not at all, Detective Inspector.  I am happy you found the time to meet with me.”

Mycroft gestured to the empty seat across from him and, as if by telepathy, the server appeared at Lestrade’s elbow holding a steaming cup of exactly the tea he had been thinking about ordering on the walk to the café.

      “It’s been a little busy today, but a break from Sherlock is always welcome.”

      “Ah, he’s on a case.”

      “Yeah, murder of a Patrick Milford.  John’s peeved at me because I apparently interrupted a steamy round of morning _activity_.  I’ll have to come up with some ring code for when it’s an emergency and when it can wait so John won’t keep giving me the evil eye.”

There was no universe in which a parallel Mycroft would allow the image of his brother engaging in _activities_ into his mind.

      “They’re off somewhere following up a strangely-shaped dust ball or a paint chip that smells like Chanel No. 5 or whatever the hell Sherlock picked up on at the victim’s house.”

      “He is rather skilled at bringing meaning to the most esoteric details.”

      “You’re right about that.  So what’s your day been like?  I haven’t heard about WWIII breaking out, so well done you, whatever you’ve been up to.”

      “You’re too kind.  And, in actuality, this has been a most singular day…”

Mycroft began to tell the tale of not only the past night, but of the incidents leading up to the warm scene he’d witnessed in his sitting room only a few hours before.  And he could be forgiven the wealth of detail and, perhaps the fact that he embellished a few things just a trifle, because there was little in London more engaging than Gregory Lestrade when he laughed.

      “No… you can’t tell me you were there playing out a LeCarre novel and I missed it!  Life’s not fair, not fair at all.  Bet you made a roguish agent, too.”

Such flattery… and so freely given.  What would it be like to offer a little reward?  To simply reach across the table and take the man’s hand?  Run a finger along his jaw… ruffle the purely magnificent strands of silver hair…

      “I did nothing but recite my lines.  Dear Arthur was the consummate actor, however.  Very dramatic in his presentation.  I was decidedly remiss in not having the incident filmed for Martin’s enjoyment.  He will likely be most cross with me when he learns the details of how the breach in his relationship was healed.”

      “I have _got_ to meet this Arthur.  He seems like an interesting fellow.”

      “Oh, he is someone who enriches any life he touches.  Martin is an extremely lucky man to have ensnared him.”

      “Yeah... some guys have all the luck…”

There would be no comment on Mycroft’s part on the slight pall that fell over Lestrade’s eyes.  Mycroft knew every detail of the man’s life and was very aware that his romantic involvement of late had been best described as nonexistent.  While that had pleased Mycroft Holmes to no end, now he was trying to process the vague sense of unease at the Detective Inspector’s unhappiness.  He deserved someone who cared about him and about whom he could care in return.  At their age, unfortunately, opportunities to find someone like that were dwindling rapidly.

      “Well, Martin deserves a measure of luck after the life he has led.”

      “That’s for sure.  I knew Sherlock could be a terror, but I never really thought about him as a tyke.  Makes sense he’d be a complete nightmare.  John’s fortunate that he met the great git after we had a chance to soften him up.”

  _We_ … the truth of that was debatable since Mycroft had done little.  But it was so… tempting to include himself in the plural term.  Tempting to indulge in a small fantasy about being part of something with Lestrade.  Something real and rich, something that involved shared confidences and quiet nights in a home that welcomed them both.  And Sherlock.  How many others in the world would be willing to join him in a family that involved his brother?  But Mycroft Holmes was not one to easily give in to temptation.

      “He is, isn’t he… though if John had been available to offer his input at an earlier time, Sherlock might already be volunteering his services providing help for the homeless rather than using them as his personal army of informants.”

      “Now that’s an image.  Sherlock Homes with his skinny suits ladling out soup with a comforting smile.”

      “I should mention that to the good doctor at some point.  I am sure he would be happy to perform a service to the less fortunate and two pairs of hands do more good than one.”

Lestrade let out another of his laughs that Mycroft felt down to his toes and motioned the server over to order more tea.

      “Well, I’ll lend you a disguise so we can observe that first hand.  Hopefully the professional recording equipment I’ll have won’t be a giveaway.”

The conversation flowed easily and fondly and Lestrade wondered what in the hell it all meant.  From what he’d seen of and heard about Mycroft Holmes, this was very uncharacteristic.  The man normally held himself aloof and distant from those around him but these smiles were sincere.  Mycroft was very good at affecting any expression to suit his purposes, but Lestrade had sufficient experience with both Sherlock and his brother, under very strained conditions, to be able to tell the difference.  Maybe it didn’t matter what it meant.  Maybe it didn’t mean anything beyond what it would look like to an outsider – two mature men sharing a laugh in the afternoon before returning to whatever their normal job/family/hobby/friends expected of them.  Lestrade took a long sip from his new cup of tea and decided that if that was all this was, then he could live with it.  Just do what they’d always done and leave his foolish little wishes where they should have stayed – locked in a deep dungeon where they’d be eaten by a three-headed serpent creature if they tried to escape.

When Mycroft’s mobile sounded, Lestrade took some solace in the fact that the man did not look at all pleased at the disruption.  Without saying one word besides ‘yes,’ Mycroft ended his phone conversation with a rueful glance in Lestrade’s direction.

      “I am afraid I must cut short our time.  Matters that require my attention… I’m sure you understand.”

      “Yeah, I should probably get back, too.  Good to see you, though.  I, ummm… I got a little worried there…”

Mycroft wished, wished so deeply it was nearly brutal, that he could be as courageous.  Even than tiny admission was more than he could muster.  And he wanted to say something, anything, that would erase that nearly inaudible trace of hurt in Lestrade’s voice.  But he also relished it.  Felt a very inappropriate pride that the hurt was for him.  That Lestrade cared enough, _wanted_ enough to feel hurt when Mycroft had backed away.  He’d hoped for so very long that someone could feel that for him… it was a pity that he’d finally realized that he’d hoped for something that could only lead to a very unfortunate outcome.

      “I do apologize, but my attention has been in very high demand.”

Again the merest whisper of disappointment skittering across the Detective Inspector’s handsome face.

      “Don’t I know the beast that can be.  But… don’t be a stranger.  Everyone needs a bit of fun now and then.”

Mycroft had difficulty seeing anything around him but the brilliance of Lestrade’s smile.  That had to be why as he laid down a few notes to pay for the tea, his fingers dragged across the back of his tablemate’s hand.  A simple mistake, one he should apologize for immediately.  That would mean now.  Right now.  A few seconds ago, at this point.  For what was he apologizing again?  It was hard to think about much with the back of his own hand being stroked by another set of callused fingers.  And that was… Mycroft snatched his hand back and used it to straighten his tie, not meeting the glittering eyes that he felt roaming across his race.

      “Unfortunately, Detective Inspector, not everyone has the opportunity to act on their needs.  Do have a good day.”

Lestrade sat back and didn’t bother to hide the smirk that crept across his lips.  It _was_ possible to rattle the unflappable Mycroft Holmes.  He wondered if the other men Mycroft dated made his brain shut down like that.  Somehow, he thought not.

__________

      “Damn it all, Sherlock!  Are you allergic to calling for help before you get your head bashed!  And you, John… I expect better of you than this!”

      “Look, Dad… sometimes there’s no chance to stop and give you a friendly ring.”

      “You’ve been running around all day, John!  Never thought a bit of back up might be useful!”

      “Cease your ridiculous prattle, Lestrade.  You’re simply aggrieved that your skills were once again insufficient to bring a successful end to the case.  Do not take your bruised ego out on John.”

      “One day… one day you’ll actually wind up staying in that expensive coffin your brother bought and then who’ll have the last laugh.”

      “Probably the undertaker, since I plan to be buried with John and we shall be quite a sight wedged into that ugly box together.”

      “I’ll be dead, too, when this happens, right?”

      “Possibly, however I cannot guarantee our coincident demise.”

      “Lovely… there’s one more topic for my regular nightmares.”

Lestrade just shook his head and walked away.  He wasn’t even significantly put out by their antics, it was just… if something did ever happen it would be his responsibility to notify Mycroft and the thought of that made him physically ill.  Fortunately, _this_ call would simply be a reassurance that all was fine.

      “If this is not of the utmost importance…”

That was angrier than Lestrade had heard Mycroft sound in awhile.  Best step lightly…

      “It’s Detective Inspector Lestrade, Mr. Holmes.”

      “Oh, do accept my apologies, Detective Inspector, I was just involved in something rather delicate.”

      “I won’t keep you, but I thought you’d want to know Sherlock and John had a bit of a roughing up tonight.  John’s got a few knife cuts, look worse than they are, but Sherlock had a pretty nasty knock to the head.”

      “I see.”

      “Needless to say, Sherlock won’t agree to get any medical treatment.  Even John’s on board, but he won’t budge.”

      “Of course he wouldn’t, when has Sherlock ever listened to reason?”

      “I can force the issue.  Get him packed into an ambulance and be done with it.”

      “No, let them go.  John is a doctor, after all.  He won’t allow even Sherlock’s pigheadedness to override his medical instincts.”

      “You’re probably right.  And John’s got the skills to heave the lanky bastard over his shoulder and march him down the road to the nearest clinic if he has to.”

      “True, John _does_ have unexpected physical strength at times.”

      “Now that would be a laugh… John Watson against Sherlock in a bare-knuckle brawl for the last cup of tea in the house.  Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if it hadn’t already happened.  They do show up with a lot of unexplained bruises.  I’d take front-row seats to that show.”

      “It _would_ be amusing to watch, wouldn’t it?”

      “Well, we can only hope.  I’ll give them the nod to go home, then.  Better get them going fast, too.  Sitting over there holding hands like a couple of teenagers, have to make sure that doesn’t get to the papers.  Sherlock will be more aggravated than those pictures of him in that hat!”

      “Yes… thank you, Detective Inspector.”

Mycroft did sound distracted… or trying to keep the nature of the call to himself.  Lestrade wondered if it would be proper to push the envelope a little and decided he only lived once.

      “Alright then.  That’s settled, now how about us?  Are you free on, say… Tuesday afternoon?”

      “Tuesday?  I do believe I am.”

Oh, that was a very nice curl of hesitation and curiosity in Mycroft’s voice.  That emboldened Lestrade even further.

      “Then I’m inviting you for tea.  On me.  Maybe a bit of cake, while we’re at it.  Make things a proper get together.  Sound good?”

Three seconds passed before Lestrade got his ‘of course’ as an answer.  He knew he’d probably pay for taking advantage, but… ok, best not think about all the ways Mycroft Holmes could bring a little punishment to his life.

      “Wonderful.  Any place special?”

      “Our usual location?”

      “Traditionalist… I like that.  I’m looking forward to it.  Very much so, in fact.  You have a good evening, Mr. Holmes.”

      “Delightful, and good evening to you, as well.”

Lestrade looked back towards the detective duo and wasn’t at all surprised to find they’d taken flight the moment his back was turned.  Well, John might have a bit of the imp about him at times, but there was one thing Lestrade was absolutely sure of – he would always safeguard Sherlock’s welfare.  And that made it much easier for Lestrade to sleep at night.

__________

Knocks at Lestrade’s door late at night never meant anything good, so he didn’t hurry to put his book aside and answer.  And it took him a few moments to actually ask in his visitor to step inside once he saw who it was.

      “Mycroft?  What in the… come in.”

Lestrade moved out of the way to let Mycroft in and felt a rush of panic logging all of the paperbacks strewn around, the dishes in the sink, the shoes he’d toed off and left on the couch while he was reading.  Wonderful, the very first time he has Mycroft Holmes in his home and it’s not even fit to house pigs.  He had no doubt that he could drop by chez Holmes at any point and it would look like something out of a magazine.

      “What ummmm… what you brings you by?”

      “Actually… I find myself in the very unusual position of wanting to be, shall we say, out of the way for a while.”

      “That makes no sense.”

      “Surely there have been times when your presence would be more of a hindrance than a help?”

      “Sherlock says that’s all the time.”

      “Sherlock is a peacock.  He puts on a stylish show, but he shrieks like a banshee gone mad and would make an exceedingly stringy meal.”

      “Brotherly love warms my heart.”

      “And non-brotherly love should be allowed to flower without an audience.”

      “Oh… sock on the doorknob.”

The ability to flummox the elder Holmes was becoming addictive.

      “You know… mate has a date in and puts the sock on the doorknob as a signal to stay the fuck away.”

      “How utterly distasteful.  Yet expedient and effective in avoiding embarrassment and other unpleasantness.”

      “Randy blokes are all about expediency.  Can I offer you…”

Lestrade whipped his brain to and fro trying to remember anything he had of sufficient quality to offer Mycroft Holmes.  Coming up empty, he took a breath and hoped politeness would be enough to offset the shite he kept around for personal use.

      “… anything?  I’ve got… well, I’ve got police-grade tea and scotch…”

      “I would not refuse a glass of scotch.  Police-grade notwithstanding.”

      “Sure!  Yeah… have a seat well… kitchen table’s probably the best until I get the sofa cleared off.”

      “That will be fine.”

      “You haven’t explained why you’re here, though.  I mean… I get it you can’t go back if your place is being used as a love nest, but seriously… here?”

Lestrade waved an arm around indicating the very modest circumstances in which he lived.  And it was the very question with which Mycroft had been wrestling.  He had left the restaurant after a truly wonderful dinner with Martin and Arthur, with the excuse that he had work that required his attention, but that was a half-truth.  There was work that could benefit from his attention, but nothing that actually _needed_ his attention.  He’d had his driver tour the city for awhile, and ruminated about what his life had become with the appearance, or rather disappearance, of his cousin.  John and Sherlock were likely engaged in cozy commiseration over their battle wounds, Martin and Arthur were continuing their lovely day and he… he was alone in a very nice vehicle.  And would be alone in his very nice office or his very nice hotel room.

He’d taken out his mobile and ran his finger along the list of coded names, seeking one that he could offer him a place to bide time, at least, until he felt certain that his presence would not interfere with his cousin’s evening.  And of all the contacts in his personal folder there wasn’t one.  Not one.  He had a number of names appropriate for an escort out for an evening or to an event, where an escort was expected.  He had a number of names suitable for a discrete encounter when even he felt the urges associated with normal human existence.  But none… not one to simply share a little pleasant time without the necessity for some future repayment.  For a man whose social life was surprisingly active, he was completely unable to press a key on his mobile to call a _friend_.

      “I happened to be close by and simply thought I might pass the time in an agreeable fashion until I may safely return home.  Actually, I am not sure if the possessive pronoun is still warranted.  With the impromptu invasion by various family members I am far more the guest than the homeowner.  Take-away cartons, Gregory… dripping grease onto my upholstery… Arthur has made my kitchen his kingdom, with my complete support you understand, and the exquisite rug in my study has been trampled by more feet in the past several days than in all the time it has rested on my floor.”

Lestrade burst out laughing and pulled out his bottle of scotch along with two plain glasses.

      “First flat of my own in London… not a day went by that I didn’t come home to find one or usually more of my mates eating my food, drinking my booze, shagging in my bed…”

      “Fortunately, I have sufficient guest rooms that my own bed chamber remains sacrosanct.”

      “Thank god for that.  Believe me there’s nothing more depressing than having to wash sheets that you didn’t dirty up yourself.”

      “Perish the thought.”

More genial laughter, the loosening of Mycroft’s tie and the sliding down of Lestrade in his chair as the men settled into their scotch and conversation.  Lestrade forgot about the surroundings in which he was entertaining his guest and Mycroft forgot about the reasons that drove him to this kitchen in the first place.

__________

Several hours and several glasses of scotch later, Lestrade had broken out a pack of cards and Mycroft was showing off the fortune telling skills he had learned during some unexplainable activity in Poland.

      “So, I’m headed for a solid middle position on the job, won’t find my true love because I’m too busy catting around with persons of loose virtue and can’t count on my naturally tannable skin to protect me because I’m going to die of skin cancer.  Bet none of my cabana boys will hold my hand as I breathe my last, either.”

      “It _is_ a rather bleak future, I grant you, but I did predict a _long_ life, if that is of any solace.”

      “You’re a prick, Mycroft.  Mycroft Holmes is a massive prick and I’m going to make it my long lonely life’s work to let the world know this very important fact.”

      “Alas… such is the sad fate of truth-tellers throughout time.”

      “No wonder they burned your lot at the stake.  Need to protect us gentle folk from your enchantments.”

      “Good heavens, Gregory… do you find me enchanting?”

There were moments in everyone’s life where the entire world seemed to come to a halt, but Mycroft Holmes had successfully avoided those unpleasant moments.  Until now.  In fact, he was quite certain that his whole lifetime’s supply had come visiting at once.  And the widened eyes of his host was evidence he had not successfully camouflaged this vital detail.  The sly grin that morphed into a very attractive and knowingly seductive smile was the most frightening thing Mycroft had ever seen.

      “As a matter of fact, I do.”

This time, there was no mistaking the intent of the fingers that dragged across a hand.  Gregory Lestrade was very deliberate in the small wavy patterns he traced across Mycroft’s skin and down to the tips of his fingers.

      “In fact, I’ve never met anyone as enchanting.”

This time Lestrade’s fingers lifted Mycroft’s hand so he could press his lips softly to the back of it in an overused, clichéd gesture of romance.  One that cut through Mycroft’s heart like a saber through the air.

      “I… I am confident it is safe for me to return home at this point.  The p…proverbial sock should be off of the door.”

There was no mistaking the hunger in Lestrade’s eyes, nor the fact he had yet to let go of Mycroft’s hand.

      “You know, I’ve got a drawer full of socks of my own.  And a doorknob.”

Mycroft had endured things that would make any other man in creation shatter, but being blatantly propositioned by Gregory Lestrade was making him tremble.  And, damn it all, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

      “I am certain that is true.  However, the hour is late and your morning is early.”

      “Going without sleep is a job requirement.  However, it’s normally not for such a pleasurable reason.”

Lestrade returned his lips to Mycroft’s hand and kept Mycroft’s eyes firmly locked with his, even as those eyes fluttered very slightly when Lestrade’s tongue began to trace over the patterns his fingers had made minutes before.  Before his dignity was compromised by the growing weight in his trousers, Mycroft pulled back his hand and stood, making sure to smooth his jacket so it hung nicely and hid his weakness.

      “I would regret terribly making tomorrow and difficult day for you, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade also stood and closed the distance between himself and Mycroft.

      “And I would regret terribly letting an opportunity like this pass us by, Mr. Holmes.”

This time, Lestrade pressed his lips against the slightly parted ones of the man in front of him.  Spicy… for a man known for his coldness, Mycroft’s skin was warm and spicy.  And delicious.  Perfect for tasting, which Lestrade did slowly, savoring each touch of his tongue against that perfectly delicious mouth.

      “Gregory… we can’t…”

      “I’m not alone in this, Mycroft.  I may not know a lot, but I do know I’m _not_ alone in wanting this.”

Lestrade’s hands stroked down Mycroft’s sides and rested on his hips drawing the elder Holmes’s body closer until they were pressed together and then returned to worshipping the lips of the most desirable man he’d ever met.  When Mycroft didn’t pull away, he moved his hands around and let them roam as they wanted across Mycroft’s back.

For his part, Mycroft couldn’t process the barrage of sensations that were hammering at his mind.  Everything was too… much.  Too strong, too warm, too sweet, too good… and it could be his.  All he had to do was take it.  Reach out and let his hands explore the body that was holding him gently and touching him as if was a precious gift.  He just had to reach out…

Instead he took a step back and tried to compose himself.

      “Mycroft…”

      “You are not wrong, Gregory.  But… I am not necessarily free to act on my…”

Lestrade cut off Mycroft’s familiar speech with another kiss and press of bodies that left no question about how he wanted the evening to continue.  And he knew from the answering bulge pushing hard against his own that Mycroft’s body wanted the same outcome.

This time Mycroft took several steps back and held up a hand when Lestrade stepped forward in pursuit.

      “I cannot, Gregory.  At least, not now.  There are many directions in which my mind is being drawn at the moment and I am unable to provide the attention to you that I would wish.  Perhaps… when the situation with Martin is closed successfully and Sherlock and John’s domestic situation has settled into whatever new pattern it will display… when my life returns more fully to me, I can reciprocate your advances.”

      “So you’re not saying no.”

      “I am merely asking for a postponement.”

      “I can do a postponement.  Just so long as I get one final bit of reassurance.”

And he had to crook his finger and beckon Mycroft closer.  The number of individuals who could beckon Mycroft and expect obedience could be counted on one hand with fingers left over… and now another had to be added to that supremely elite list.  Because Mycroft’s mind didn’t even register that his legs returned his body to Lestrade’s arms to indulge in the most delightful distraction anyone in his life had ever offered him.


	6. That Old Black Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short, but... I ran out of rum. Blame Captain Morgan. The scallywag...

Mycroft bid Lestrade farewell and it took every bit of his vast self-control to make it to the waiting car without shaking.  Self-control, such a laughable concept.  Where exactly _was_ his self-control?  He had not… had _not_ … gone to Lestrade for this.  He had vowed to keep his relationship with the Detective Inspector purely collegial and now… what had happened to him?  Mycroft Holmes did not behave as love-addled maiden.  He _didn’t_. What if… what if anyone had born witness to his aberration?  Saw how clearly he lacked control of the situation and permitted himself to be _manipulated_ …

_It is not manipulation when you are completely aware of what is transpiring._

No.  There was something, some trick…

_Gregory Lestrade is likely possessed of many tricks, some of which you could have experienced if you were a man of courage._

Courage was not the issue.  The issue was failing to maintain a successful path to a clear objective.

_How comforting empty rhetoric can be for those frightened to face the truth._

The only truth was that Gregory Lestrade had no place in the sterile, secretive, affected world inhabited by those like Mycroft Holmes.

_The only truth was that Gregory Lestrade might be a person who could make that world less sterile, secretive and affected._

He deserves better.

_He should be the one who decides what he deserves._

He does not know all of the relevant details.

_That is the purpose of communication._

His emotions would cloud his judgment.

_And yours would not?_

What emotions, pray tell?

_Disingenuous… and childish._

Mycroft’s inner voice was refusing to listen to reason so he turned a deaf ear to its prattle.  What he could not ignore, however, was the fact that his body still craved the partner it had touched for so brief a time.  Only a few scant minutes of simple touch and Mycroft had a fire burning inside of him that was painful in its intensity.  Mycroft admitted, unlike his brother, that there were issues associated with being a living creature that required attention.  This particular issue, however, normally burned dully in Mycroft Holmes.  Dully and easily quenched by any willing participant from his carefully pre-screened and cultivated list of possibilities.  But tonight’s fire was different… even his skin felt hot and his entire form tingled as if electric currents were flowing through his arteries and veins.  This was _different_ … and was not abating in any manner.  Mycroft most certainly was not going to waste precious time contemplating the meaning of this physiological cacophony, but he could not imagine spending any more time in this ridiculous state.  It was Lestrade’s fault, anyway.  Whatever trickery he had wrought was obviously beyond Mycroft’s ability to remedy.  But… no.  That was not true.  This was biological… purely biological and nothing more.  And basic biology could be remedied easily, if one had means.  Means and the need to demonstrate quite clearly that Gregory Lestrade had no special hold on him.

Mycroft pulled out his mobile and scrolled through the contacts to find one that was very well-respected for addressing biological issues at any time of the day or night, and with very little advanced notice.  Mycroft had never used this particular service for himself, but had occasion to contract employees of said service for various distinguished visitors for whom he acted as host for a brief time.  And these employees would not at all be offended if another person’s name slipped out from between their partner’s lips during particular arduous moments of their encounter. As his finger descended to initiate the call, his phone vibrated and Mycroft received an incoming text.  A picture of his umbrella, resting against the edge of Lestrade’s kitchen table.

_Missing something? – GL_

Damnation… and that was one of favorites.  Well, there would be no going back for that now.  Perhaps he could send John to retrieve it after a day or so had passed.  Close on the heels of the first text, came a second.

_Thought it could use some cheering up. – GL_

A photo followed quickly of his beloved umbrella with a horrendously gaudy green and red striped sock snuggled down over the handle.

_There, that’s better ;-) - GL_

Mycroft stared dumbly at his mobile, his mind trying not to notice that he was chuckling softly at Lestrade’s silliness.  It was also trying not to notice the gentle swell of warmth rising in his chest from the foolish messages.  And under no circumstances did it authorize his fingers to type out a reply.

_Father Christmas shall be very displeased. – MH_

_No threesomes. – GL_

_Well ok… if it gets me a better present under my tree. – GL_

The Detective Inspector was quite the risqué person when the mood struck, it seemed.

_And what is the present for which you are hoping? – MH_

Mycroft was extremely certain he did not dictate that text to his fingers.  Lestrade had bewitched his extremities into insufferable insubordination.

_Something very special.  Elegant fellow with a beautiful body, a gorgeous mind, a rapier wit, impeccable fashion sense – GL_

_How difficult you are to please. - MH_

_Don’t bother spending much time with the wrapping.  I’ll take it unboxed. – GL_

_Well, a nice little red bow strategically positioned would be a nice tip of the hat to the season. – GL_

_Hah!  I said tip… caught that?  I should be a comedian. – GL_

_Absolutely not.  The citizens of London must be protected from the criminal element. – MH_

_Sherlock can do that. – GL_

_But who will protect the citizens from Sherlock? – MH_

_See what I mean – gorgeous mind and rapier wit.  With a red bow? – GL_

_It is not Christmas, Gregory. – MH_

_But I’ve got a stocking and everything. – GL_

Mycroft’s driver watched his employer in the rearview mirror and allowed himself a grin.  Whoever Mr. Holmes was texting, they were making his boss very happy.  Something much more rare than winning the lottery.  While wearing a suit made of banana skins.  Which reminded him… he needed to text Arthur the link to the website for his art.  The man was very eager to see more of his work.

_Are you normally this flirtatious? – MH_

_This isn’t flirting, Mr. Holmes.  This is sexy joshing.  Totally different thing. – GL_

      “We’re here, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft’s head snapped up to see his residence looming next to the car.  For a slight moment the elder Holmes felt faint from the sudden rush to his oblivious mind of all of the emotions he had been experiencing and actions his body had been taking while it maintained its regal detachment.  Sexy joshing… laughter… Mycroft’s blood began to turn cold when he remembered just who he was preparing to call when he received Lestrade’s first text.  Disgraceful!  Deplorable! D…

_Don’t pretend you don’t love it. – GL_

Sorcerer!  Mycroft was a rational man.  A supremely rational, logical man who viewed the world with a cold, clinical and dispassionate eye.  Racing towards a brothel because one man appeared to have a control switch for his body’s reactions and enjoyed having a bit of fun exploring just what that switch could accomplish.  Magician… wonder worker… wizard… spellcaster… incubus.  Oh, that was it… Gregory Lestrade was surely an incubus sent to bring him to destruction through lecherous and licentious means.

_Mycroft?  Don’t make me text you a picture of something you probably don’t want anyone to see by accident. – GL_

INCUBUS!  Mycroft nearly dropped his phone as the mental image of Gregory Lestrade’s private areas splashed across the screen of his expensive smart phone sent a tremor through his body that would be visible to anyone looking his way.

_I apologize, Gregory.  I was speaking to the driver. – MH_

_He could be another exception to my threesome moratorium.  Quite nice looking ;-) – GL_

And what position would Mycroft want in that mix?  Cared for and pleasured by both the young and powerful man in the front seat and the skilled and caring man he had just visited or putting that particular man in the center of the action, settling back occasionally to simply watch Lestrade’s body thrum and glow as it was teased and stimulated by a proud and handsome lover…

_He is both heterosexual and married. – MH_

_I love a challenge – GL_

_I’ll see what I can do – MH_

_Nah… hate to knock the lad’s ego when I can’t spare attention for anyone but you. – GL_

How could Lestrade’s wife ever have been unfaithful?  Was she insane?

      “Sir?  Do you want me to continue on?”

      “I apologize, Charles.  I was slightly distracted by a matter of work.”

      “Shall I keep the car available for your guests, sir?”

      “Please.  I will let you know when they will require your services.  Have a good evening, Charles.”

      “You as well, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft exited the car and stood looking at his darkened home.  Martin and Arthur would most certainly be asleep, together… as it should be… and he would have to return to his office in… oh, very few hours…  A hectic and unpredictable day but wasn’t that old hat by now?  The terrible, incubus-influenced part of him knew it _was_ sadly old hat but it didn’t need to have been.  Martin and Arthur sharing their sleep… Sherlock and John wrapped in each other’s warmth… he could have had that tonight.  He could have stayed in Gregory’s arms and not woken alone in his crisp bed that smelled of freshly washed cotton and lavender… and not a hint of flesh or breath or words or touches…

_Mycroft?  Are you dead?  Can I have your shoes? – GL_

Gregory Lestrade was dangerous.  Moriarty was the most dangerous man in the world for Sherlock Holmes, but Mycroft’s greatest challenge came in a much simpler, more affable form.

_Not deceased at this time.  Simply arrived at home.  May I bid you good night, Gregory? – MH_

_Absolutely.  Good night to you, Mycroft.  And thank you for a very enjoyable evening. – GL_

_You’re welcome.  And my thanks to you, also. – MH_

Mycroft waited a few moments and, with no responding text declared the conversation over for the evening.  Quite the relief.

But why did that relief make him feel so empty?

__________

Lestrade set the phone down on his bedside table and let his grin stretch wide across his face.  Mycroft Holmes… such clean lines and polish and elegance and beauty and sophistication… and someone who he desperately wanted to lock inside with some Monty Python DVD’s and a few good bottles of simple peasant wine paired with excellent bread and cheeses.  Maybe no one else pictured the great bureaucrat that way, but he did.  Mycroft would be as magnificent at a formal state function as he would barefoot on the couch leaning back and resting against Lestrade’s chest.  Definite progress tonight.  Very definite progress… and they had another meeting coming up on Tuesday… yet one more opportunity for progress.  Tea-fueled, sweaty naked progress…


	7. The Peek of Sunshine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When things start to brighten, be wary of storm clouds... enjoy the fluff...
> 
> ...for now...

The brief nap Mycroft enjoyed after arriving home at least cleared away the trauma of his rebellious behaviors of the previous evening from his system.  Such…

_affection?_

Inanity.  Lestrade was a genial man, accustomed to jest and teasing.  A very admirable trait for promoting social relationships.  And it was what he should expect in turn from a partner.  Not a stuffy, pompous…

_Says the man who told fortunes and drank cheap scotch around a second-hand kitchen table… who was actually laughing and having an enjoyable time…_

 …bureaucrat with no time to spare for a true social life.

_Explain, then, how you are able to spend copious amounts of time facilitating your brother’s well-being and playing host to Martin and Arthur._

Mycroft tried to pinpoint the moment the different parts of him took on independent existences, all at war, apparently, with his higher-order thinking.  Not that higher-order thinking was his primary concern at the moment.  Watching young Arthur dance about the kitchen, completely unbridled and radiating joy in all directions, his _only_ concern was to simply absorb the experience much as one would any example of performance art.  And Martin’s arrival made the scene complete.  A clearly loving couple, so eager to demonstrate their affection to each other and the world.

What impacted Mycroft the most was how comfortable were the men with each other.  They had been a romantic unit for only a whisper of time, yet there was an ease to their interactions, anticipations and responses that truly marked them as ‘together.’  The same ease that he witnessed for Sherlock and John.  And… no, he would not say he wanted it.  Even though he did.  To be able to stroll barefooted into the kitchen and take someone in his arms as they stood at the stove preparing breakfast.  To give them a kiss and savor their heat and the scent of their skin as he prepared himself for whatever his day would bring.

_You could be doing that right now.  It could be Gregory giving you a welcoming smile as Arthur was giving Martin._

Mycroft shook off the rodent-like nibbling of his very assertive subconscious, however, it was harder to shake off the memory of the kisses which he sampled last night.  There were very few things that Mycroft had encountered that could honestly wear the term _perfect_.  But Gregory’s kisses… perfectly firm, perfectly soft, perfectly warm, perfectly dry, perfectly wet, perfectly… perfect.  And perfect was the fit of their lips, the curves of their bodies… this was harder still to shake off… It could have been him sitting in a kitchen this morning, sharing time with someone whose interest in him was real and strong.  If only he was someone who had earned that right through the choices of his life.

With breakfast conversation striding through the somber topic of Martin’s recovery, Mycroft was able to push aside his own personal issues and focus on someone who had suffered from poor decisions that Mycroft had made in his life.  That was the crux of his own issues, anyway.  His decisions impacted broadly and poor ones could and did hurt people dear to him.  Sometimes that was unavoidable, but sometimes it _could_ have been avoided if he were as intelligent and capable a man as he made certain to lead others to think.  However, when Mycroft was required to deliver on his promise to Arthur to scroll through the boy’s photographs, he should have predicted that his own issues would not be able to remain dormant.

      “And this one is where we were in a shop that sold the most amazing silly hats.  I don’t know why Skip wouldn’t let me get this one for him.  I think he looks brilliant with Viking horns!  And this one we took with Maria.  Her husband took the picture for us so I could be in it.  They own this amazing shop that sells wonderful sweets and it was so good I had to have a picture to remember them by.  Oh!  And this is the puppet show we watched.  Dragons and knights and princesses.  The little kiddies were as thrilled as I was!”

Mycroft dutifully scanned each of the infinite number of photographs on Arthur’s phone and the common thread was readily apparent.  Arthur and Martin were happy, in love and it didn’t matter if they were feeding each other jelly worms or strolling through a museum, the joy they experienced in each others company was nearly blinding in its intensity.

      “So, who is he?  It is a he right and not a she?  That’s what Skip said, at least.”

Though a hundred different pathways were retraced in Mycroft’s brain in the attempt to understand Arthur’s question, all proved fruitless.

      “You have me at a disadvantage, Arthur.  I am unclear as to what you are asking.”

      “Oh!  Yeah, that happens to lots of people.  They weren’t along for the ride on my brain train so they stand there sort of dithering about looking at me like I’ve grown an extra head!  Which would be brilliant, by the way.  Two heads!  I’d never get bored because I’d always have myself to talk to and not just my brain self but a whole new head self!”

      “Arthur…”

      “Right, ok.  Well, you’re looking at my photos and you keep smiling or at least doing that thing you do where your lips don’t move but your eyes crinkle which means that you’re smiling without smiling.  And, I’m going to be frank about this because I’m confident in my detective assistant skills, but I think that means you’ve met someone who makes you happy like Skip and I are happy and seeing pictures of us reminds you of him and you having fun.  I’d have to meet him to be sure.  So when can I?”

Mycroft felt a surge of panic that any semblance of his true thoughts were so clearly on display and then remembered that he was speaking with Arthur.  Who was a tangible definition of the term ‘unique,’ and possessed skills to which his brother could not even lay claim.

      “I do hate to throw a proverbial wrench into your careful analysis, but I do not possess anyone in my life that I would equate in position to cousin Martin’s relationship to you.”

      “Come again?”

      “I am not, as they say, seeing anyone.”

      “Yeah… you are.  I know you said you didn’t have anyone you fancied, but that could have been a fib or maybe this is someone new.  Even the fib would be ok, since I know the truth now and we can go from here.  I don’t why you wouldn’t just say so, though.  I mean, when Skip agreed to be my boyfriend, the second time, that is, I told everyone!  Even people I didn’t know – I was just so happy!  You should tell people too, so they know _you’re_ happy.  I’m sure everyone would be thrilled!  I know I am.  You deserve to have a boyfriend.  I bet he’s an amazing one, too.  Since you’re amazing.  It’s just like logic.  I think.  I’ll have to ask Mr. Sherlock.”

      “Arthur, my boy… I believe that I would be the first one to know if I was romantically involved with someone.”

      “No, that’s not true at all.  I mean when it becomes official, then yes.  Well, you and your boyfriend would both be firsts since you’d both know at the same time, but sometimes other people actually know first.  Like with Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Watson.  I knew they were absolutely, down deep, already together before either of them did.  And you knew it too!  So, I was right about that and I’m right about this.  Is he blonde?  Oh!  Maybe a lovely ginger, like Skip…”

      “Silver.”

It took a conscious effort for Mycroft to start breathing again.  How in creation was his body and parts of his consciousness staging such a successful coup?  His rational mind was being ignored and given rude gestures at every turn.

      “Silver!  That’s… BRILLIANT!  Oh my heavens!  That is the most wonderful thing ever… Your boyfriend and Skip are so lucky to have really interesting hair.  Yours would be interesting too, if you let it flutter about a bit.  I can see pretty colors hiding there that the gel sort of fades.  I should probably tell you that your hair product doesn’t have a very good flavor so don’t let your boyfriend kiss your head until you’ve got it all fresh and tasty.  Or use flavored product.  I’d go with vanilla.  Or cinnamon.  But it’s really up to you.  What’s his name?”

      “Gregory.”

 This was chaos!  He had been so focused on disentangling the threads of Arthur’s thought processes that the lad had bested him again.  Oh… it was sorely tempting to abscond with Arthur Shappey and set him up in a wonderful little house in an undisclosed location where he could play host to certain individuals possessing information critical to the government.  A few days of pleasant vacation with a very agreeable host and exotic cuisine and they could fill volumes with the information collected.

      “Wait… wait one teensy weensy moment… that was the friend you had scotch with wasn’t it?  Nope – don’t answer!  I already know.  It was!  And apparently he wasn’t just a friend and you were telling a bit of a lie.  I forgive you, though, so don’t worry about that.  Let’s see, he’s a policeman and your boyfriend and you said he’s already friends with Mr. Sherlock, so that means he’s also friends with Doctor Watson I expect… really, could anything be better?  I mean maybe if he owned a shop that sold party favors or something, but now you can do things as couples with Mr. Sherlock and when you visit you can do couple things with me and Skip and that’s going to be smashing.  I wish he was here now.  How much fun would that be?  Lots.  It would be _lots_ of fun.  Does he have a hat?”

Mycroft rallied to raise his rebuttal, but every word and phrase that danced through his mind fell flat on its respective arse.  Arthur’s face was flush with excitement and it was very difficult to barricade himself against the brightness of Arthur’s large grin.  It was dispelling some of his ever-present self-doubt and for this moment, and maybe no other, he could believe that what Arthur was saying was actually feasible.

      “Gregory is a Detective Inspector and does not customarily wear a hat.”

      “Oh, that’s a bit of a raincloud but… maybe he has a coat like that Columbo chap?  Mum likes Columbo; she says he’s got a good head on his shoulders, even when he acts a bit daft, and gives it to the idiots in right style.”

This time it _was_ a tiny smile that bloomed on Mycroft’s face.

      “He _does_ often wear a coat.  And delights in ‘giving it to the idiots in right style.’  Fortunately, he accomplishes that in a more tactful fashion than does Sherlock.”

      “I would hope so.  I think Mr. Sherlock is tops, but he does sometimes treat people a bit brusquely. So, when will I meet him?”

A tricky question.  Whereas Mycroft believed Lestrade and Arthur would greatly enjoy each others company, there was little doubt that Arthur would subject the man to a very similar line of interrogation and that could prove detrimental to his agenda.  Or lack thereof.  Perhaps it was for the best to let that particular meeting wait for a later time.

      “That is difficult for me to predict, unfortunately.  As you can imagine, he is a terribly busy individual and his schedule is frightfully erratic.”

      “Well, that I do understand.  The police on the telly work all hours.  But you’ll try, right?  See if he has some time free.  Any time, really… morning or daytime or night.  But not today, of course, because we’re having tea with Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Watson and… I have no idea how long that will take.  Or what shape Skip will be in when they’re done talking.  That’s the real point, of course.  Giving them an excuse to talk.  With tea.  And you don’t mind if I use the biscuits I found do you?  They look very nice.”

      “You may make use of anything you find in this kitchen for your tea, Arthur.  And if you lack something you require, simply inform me and it will be delivered.  I do want to ask you, though… are you prepared for today?  You have been through a great deal of emotional turmoil and strain since arriving in London and it would not be remiss to take another day or so to, shall we say, get your feet back under the table.”

And, of course, Arthur had to look down at his feet while he thought.

      “That’s nice of you, Mycroft.  To think about me, that is.  It has been hard.  A _lot_ harder than I thought it was going to be.  I know that Doctor Watson told me to expect bad things and there _were_ a lot of those while Skip was getting well.  But, I didn’t expect the rest, all the business with Skip and Mr. Sherlock, I mean.  Then… ok, I’m sorry but I don’t want to think about what Skip said to me after that and then not being boyfriends anymore.  I still get a little weepy when I remember that.  But I think that Skip needs this today.  From what I’ve observed, and I’ve tried to do a lot of observing now that I’m a detective’s assistant, at least part of the time,  is that Skip needs to clear away some of the porridge associated with Mister Sherlock and when his heart is cleaner, he’ll feel better.  And that will help him stay well.  I just know it will.  I’m not… My thinking’s not all muddled about that, is it?”

Mycroft decided that asking about the ‘porridge’ would not lead down productive roads, so he constrained his answer to the critical parts of Arthur’s speech.

      “You _have_ had a difficult time, Arthur and I hope you will not hesitate if you need your own confidante.  You make yourself available to all who need you, but do not let the burdens of others push yours to the background to sit unattended.  I will always have an ear for you, dear boy, and I hope you will use it freely.  As for Martin, I share your opinion that some ‘clearing of the air’ will facilitate his recovery.  And, it is my hope that the greater the number of people he considers allies, the more secure he will feel in his daily life, perhaps sufficiently secure to request assistance when it is needed.”

      “I promise, Mycroft… when I need a little chat, I’ll call.  I definitely will.  It’s good… you’re a great friend and that makes Gregory an incredibly lucky man.  And I‘m glad I’m not being silly thinking this is the right thing for Skip.  He’s still weak, though… don’t let him fool you into thinking any different.  I’ll have to keep an eye on things so that he doesn’t get too tired or angry, although I suppose it’s probably best if he gets somewhat angry since that will make him say what he wants to say, which Skip doesn’t always do unless he’s got his dander up.  But not too much, though.  I really don’t want to have him attack Mr. Sherlock again.  It’s hard to pry Skip off when he’s gone off like a one of those blokes on Braveheart.  But without all the paint.  Though I really do like to get my face painted when I’m at a fair or party or when Mum lets me buy paint.  And she double-checks now that it’s made for skin after the _incident_.  Mum doesn’t like to talk about the _incident_.”

Although Mycroft avoided all forms of the so-called reality programming, he suspected he would be glued to his seat if a camera followed the day-to-day life of Arthur Shappey.  Measures would have to be put in place to ensure that Arthur and Martin were frequent visitors to London in the future.  Very frequent visitors.

      “Rest assured that Sherlock can adequately defend himself, however, I do not foresee any untoward displays of violence.”

The very expensive watch on his wrist scowled the time at Mycroft and he pushed down the pang of regret that duty called.  Arthur called him a great friend, but Arthur was truly the great friend.  Capable of putting anyone at ease, erasing their woes and making the future seem like a place that offered wonderful opportunities for the taking.  And, before his untethered subconscious shouted its opinion, he was willing to concede that there was the slightest possibility that Gregory Lestrade was an opportunity he might… just might… be prepared to take.

      “Unfortunately, however, I must take my leave.  Many things to do and so very little time to do them properly.  I have sincerely enjoyed this time, your very entertaining photographs and, as always, our bit of discourse.”

      “Me too!  As always.  And I’ll have lots more very soon.  Maybe I’ll make a great big collage with my pictures.  Oh!  And when Skip and I have our little house, I can put it on the wall so everyone can see how wonderful our time in London was.”

      “I shall ensure it is properly mounted and framed when it is completed.  Now, if you will excuse me?”

      “Sure!  Try not to work too hard today!”

      “I shall endeavor to follow your advice.  Until later, Arthur.”

      “Bye Mycroft!”

__________

Mycroft’s attentions were divided again between affairs of state and domestic concerns through his home surveillance footage.  Though it was a difficult process for the combatants and Mycroft would have to inform any future counselor that Martin conscripted about his cousin’s panic attacks, the outcome was heartening.  There would be no complete healing of the breach today, for it was far too wide, but some headway had been made and that was as much as Mycroft had dared to predict.  A meeting with both Sherlock and Martin would hopefully assure him that each man was clearly aware about what had and had not been accomplished, which would make strategizing to promote further progress far easier.

All day Mycroft’s mobile had been silent and that had also torn away a portion of his attention to his daily toil for the Crown.  Not one text nor a voice message from a certain Detective Inspector.  Though his conversation with Arthur had buoyed his confidence a bit on that front, the prolonged silence was weighing it down once more.  However, he was not so arrogant to have forgotten that he left Lestrade in a similar position.  And, in his case it had been intentional…  Once again, his fingers acted without his explicit bidding and began to send a text.

_Another chapter added to the family story. – MH_

It was ten minutes before the response arrived.

_Please tell me you have photos. – GL_

_I do, actually.  Nothing of visual interest, however. – MH_

_That’s no fun.  Take a picture of something that is of visual interest then. – GL_

_As you wish. – MH_

Mycroft took a quick photograph of the paperweight on his desk.  A lovely glass orb with the solar system tucked neatly inside.

_Bastard.  But I guess you do need to keep an eye on your whole domain. – GL_

_Would that were true I would make my residence on Saturn.  Lovely planet. – MH_

_I’d go for Mercury.  Get myself a nice tan and not have to worry about the bloody rain. – GL_

_We could vacation on Mars.  Sherlock’s already got a flat there, I suspect. – GL_

_I have not signed the paperwork to release that quantity of funds, so I must say no. – MH_

_However, a vacation is a very felicitous idea. – MH_

_Anything for you, gorgeous.  We can do my flat for a week or… my flat for two weeks. – GL_

_Sky’s limit with Greg Lestrade ;-) – GL_

For all of Lestrade’s teasing, that option sounded… pleasing.  Familiar, comfortable, quiet… no concerns or worries… The walls and floors were not relevant to the experience, it was the company.  A week in the Detective Inspector’s tiny flat, without his suits or cars or hair gel… could that ever be possible?  A growing part of him desperately hoped that it was.

_I shall see what my schedule allows.  Dear Arthur has me booked quite steadily for the foreseeable future, however. – MH_

_You adopted him, didn’t you? – GL_

_Cousin Martin would surely disapprove. – MH_

_It’s ok, you know.  Love to have a family.  I’ll treat the lad like my own blood, don’t you worry. – GL_

_And your cousin, too.  That’ll give us three kids.  John doesn’t count. – GL_

_Quite.  The good doctor would be most aggrieved to find himself with a nappy and bottle. – MH_

_I can get him shamefully pissed and we can definitely get a photo of that.  You in? – GL_

_As it would make him more agreeable when I sought a small favor, I would have to say yes. – MH_

_Blackmail – the motivation of champions. – GL_

A knock on his door ripped the relaxation from Mycroft’s body and the notification of an unscheduled meeting returned him to his normal state of being.

_Apologies, but duty calls. – MH_

_No problem.  Good to hear from you.  Try not to get deified while I’m not looking. – GL_

_I will provide advance notification if possible.  Until later. – MH_

_Take care, Mycoft. – GL_

Maybe… so many maybe’s in life and this one was enticingly sweet.  Hansel and Gretel could not forsake the gingerbread house and their fate was not to be envied.  However, Mycroft Holmes was neither a child nor an aficionado of gingerbread, so the maybe that was Gregory Lestrade… it no longer seemed quite so impossible…


	8. The Greater the Height, the Harder the Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sincere thanks for all of those who have left kudos and comments. I appreciate every kind and insightful word and take each and every one to heart...

Arthur could not keep his grin sheathed as he puttered in Mycroft’s kitchen, getting their film night prepared.  Not that he _ever_ had much luck trying to keep his smile concealed.  Well, except when he was Brick Steel, fierce and dangerous bodyguard, but that was playacting and not real life so he could do that and not feel the huge drank-too-much-soda pressure of trying to hold back from letting his grin fly free.

This was it.  Really, really it.  All of his new family in one place and happy and together and watching a film…  He was so completely thrilled that his head kept trying to spin, so it was a spot of luck that his neck was so strong!  The only thing that wasn’t so amazing was that Mycroft’s not-boyfriend, but yes very much so boyfriend if he would just listen to the Word of Arthur, wasn’t there.  Mycroft had been adamant that he not say a word about any of his ‘speculations’ to anyone.  Until Mycroft said it was truly true, Arthur wasn’t allowed to _say_ it was true so he couldn’t share the good news or that could be called spreading rumors by people who didn’t have his people-understanding skills, and spreading rumors was not at all nice.  And even if someone asked, he couldn’t say that Mycroft and Gregory were very much together, because it wasn’t a 100% confirmed thing, at least that’s what Mycroft insisted, so saying anything could turn out to be a lie and that would make Arthur get a stomach ache.

That moratorium was put to the test quickly when Sherlock and John arrived, with Sherlock flinging about his usual sour comments about his brother.  It was achingly difficult for Arthur not to start dancing and yell that Mycroft not only had someone he fancied but it was a brilliant someone and he was completely wonderful _and_ a policeman and _everyone_ was a couple now… but he did it.  The slight tummy troubles he would develop by not spreading the news was nothing compared to what he _would_ suffer if he found out that there really wasn’t a third couple in their mix, after all.

__________

Mycroft knew as soon as he saw his brother’s upper lip twitch at the sight of young Arthur’s naked excitement hearing there was a case being offered that a pair from their gathering would be investigating this particular incident, however that pair would not be Sherlock and John.  It was not something that pleased Mycroft terribly, but, on obtaining the details, he could not find reason to intercede.  It was either a simple dognapping, likely by one of the immediate staff, an insurance fraud masquerading as a dognapping or a natural canine break for freedom.  Any of the aforementioned situations should be easily resolved, but the exhilaration and sense of accomplishment it would bring to dearArthur was priceless.  In a few hours, he would be back here regaling them all with the story of his adventure and what greater thing could Mycroft wish for the boy?

However, Mycroft Holmes was not one to leave to chance anything that could be controlled in advance, so a quick phone call to the Detective Inspector was in order.

      “Lestrade.”

      “Detective Inspector… I understand that you have acquired a very convoluted problem that requires the assistance of my brother.”

      “How did you know that?  There’s no way Sherlock called you…”

      “We are currently in the same location, so the details were made available to me.  Tell me, should I have a flea bath prepared?”

      “If there’s a flea in this place, it’s probably gold-plated.  Take it easy on me, Mycroft… I’ve had to listen to this rich bird shrieking for the past two hours and my skull is about to split open.  They’re already calling my bosses and all of their muckity-muck friends, laying out how inept I am, so there’s really nothing Sherlock can do to make things worse.  Actually, I was surprised he said yes.  It was purely an act of desperation on my part.  I mean this isn’t really his thing, is it.”

      “Not as such, however, there were other reasons for his uncharacteristically agreeable response.  He will be arriving at your location with a different and unique assistant and I am hoping that you will make the experience as pleasant and _safe_ as possible for the young man.”

      “I’m not following.”

      “Arthur is going to assist Sherlock with his investigation this evening.  Sherlock took the case to offer the boy an additional chance for engagement and excitement before he returns to Fitton.  He did a very admirable job providing support as Sherlock searched for Martin and Arthur is _quite_ eager to reunite this poor beast with its family.  I trust I can count on you to provide him with an entertaining and worry-free evening.”

      “Look Mycroft, I can’t have a civilian wandering around the crime scene.”

      “I believe you do it regularly, actually.”

      “You know what I mean.  If something goes wrong, it’s my bum feeling the boot.”

      “Sherlock will tend to the actual work.  Arthur will simply… offer verbal encouragement.  I would expect a great number of questions about police work, however.  You might also find a hat to let him wear; Arthur would be very appreciative.”

It was only then that Mycroft remembered just who Arthur would be meeting and that Arthur had knowledge that was best termed compromising... Hell and damnation!   He could only hope that Arthur’s agreement not to speak of things for which he did not have explicit approval would continue to hold firm.

      “I can’t say I’m happy with this, but Sherlock will force the issue anyway.  Be a great big sulking diva about the whole thing until I give in, so I might as well do that now. But he’s Sherlock’s responsibility.  My plate’s already full.”

      “Sherlock is about as responsible as a fish fork, as we are both painfully aware.  Look after Arthur, Gregory.  He is a capable young man, but does need direction at times.  Now, if you will excuse me, I have guests to attend to.”

      “Mycroft, wait…”

Lestrade stared at his mobile and let out a large and heavy sigh. Well, wasn’t this simply marvelous.  The perfect thing to make his evening special.  And with someone not completely bored of his nonsense, Sherlock would be more irritating than normal trying in his overly-dramatic way to impress.  No matter what he said, did or threatened, Mycroft Holmes would be rendering payment for this.  Lots of payment.  Moany, beggy, slick and messy payment…

__________

Arthur _knew_ his head was spinning now and he wasn’t even going to try and stop it.  He was going on a case!  A real one, not one that he was sort of a part of anyway so it only partly counted, but a real case with a poor missing dog.  London was a very large and very busy place with lots of dangers for sweet little doggies that were alone without anyone to take care of them.  This was going to be brilliant!  Working a case and helping a dog find its home… Arthur knew about other investigations Sherlock and John had worked on and knew he would never want to be a part of them, what with the dead people and getting beat up, but this case was the best!  Well, he couldn’t say that because he dearly hoped that there would be more cases and some of them might even better!  Not too many, though, because when they were back at work, there wouldn’t be time to take on a _lot_ of others, what with work _and_ fun with Skip, but there would be time for some, at least.

The cab dropped off the detective pair in front of a very large residence that made Arthur’s eyes widen.  The people who lived here had to be quite rich, so he made sure to quickly finger-comb his hair and straighten his clothes.

      “You are not meeting royalty, Arthur.”

      “Well, even if they aren’t royalty, they’re bound to be quite posh so it won’t do to walk in looking like I’ve been playing a game of Twister with Skip.  Though… oh that would be fun, wouldn’t it?  Can we play Twister before we leave, Mr. Sherlock?  Just one game?”

      “I am certain that any game called ‘Twister’ will not find me as a participant.  You may however, ask John.  He has a ridiculous fondness for games, especially those having little to no academic merit or opportunities for logic and critical thinking.”

      “Once more, if you please.”

      “John likes pointless, silly games.”

      “Then he’ll love Twister!  Even if we can’t play here in London, I have my own game at home and we can play when you visit.  And I bet we can get you on the mat.  You’ll see how much fun we’re having and won’t be able to resist!”

      “My resistance will be more than sufficient.  Now, where is Lestrade…”

Sherlock had propelled them past several policemen, giving each a glare that forestalled any refusal and the two men were now striding through the halls of the very large house, Arthur meekly offering a smile to all of the angry-looking people who were watching them.

      “Ah… finally.”

Arthur peered around Sherlock’s tall frame and stood stunned by what he saw.  He tugged on Sherlock’s coat and kept tugging until the detective slapped at his hands.

      “What is wrong with you?”

      “Mr. Sherlock… is that a policeman?”

      “If you want my honest opinion, then no.  He is a buffoon to whom someone even more stupid entrusted a warrant card.”

      “But, he really is one, right?”

      “I suppose.”

      “Is his hair silver?”

      “Do you require medical attention?”

      “I don’t think so, but it’s nice of you to ask.  So, is it?”

      “Some might use that term.  It is really more of a sad attempt by his elderly grey shade to gain attention.”

      “I think it’s lovely!  Brilliant, even!”

      “John will be giving you a physical the moment we return.”

      “Mum does like me to get one every year, so it would be great to get it over with.”

Sherlock just shook his head and motioned Arthur to follow along as they approached the Detective Inspector, who was being berated once again by the homeowners.

      “Ah, Sherlock.  Excuse me sir… madam… if you’ll allow me a moment to talk to my consultant.”

Lestrade raced off before their indignant sputtering could turn into more yelling and yanked Sherlock to the other side of the room.

      “Your gratitude is heartwarming.  This is Arthur, by the way.  He will be assisting me in the investigation.  I trust that will not be a problem.”

Sherlock’s steely eyes confirmed for Lestrade that bad things waited for him if he denied Arthur access to the case.

      “Nah, good to meet you, Arthur.  I’ve heard lots of wonderful things.  My name’s Greg.  Detective Inspector Lestrade, if you’re the formal type.”

Both Lestrade and Sherlock looked around for the source of the extremely high-pitched squeak that nearly popped both their eardrums.

      “H…Hi!  It’s good to meet you to!  I’ve heard… well, I’ve heard stories about you too.  And they’re great!  I’d hoped I’d get a chance to run into you while we’re here in London and now I have! That would be me and Skip, of course.  The _we_ part, that is.  And we _are_ a we again, in case you were wondering.”

      “Why would Lestrade wonder about your romantic status?  Why would even know that you _have_ a romantic status?

      “He’s a policeman, Mr. Sherlock.  Their job is to know things.  And I’m sure Greg is the best in all of London.  I mean he’d have to be since… uh… well, you wouldn’t work with him if he wasn’t.  Yeah, that’s it.  Well done me.”

Lestrade was desperately trying to keep from laughing, both at Arthur’s antics and Sherlock’s obvious confusion.  Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

      “Inflating Lestrade’s ego is not something that I encourage, Arthur.”

      “But I do, so inflate away, mate.  I tell you what… I’ll show you around the crime scene and the Prince of Darkness here can go sniff the carpet or talk to spirits or whatever the hell he does to get himself sorted.”

      “Ok… you know though… sniffing the carpet isn’t a bad idea.  If the poor pup was scared or hurt, it might have had a little accident and it takes forever for the smell to come out, even if you scrub really hard.  If someone stole the doggy, it might tell you which room they stole him from.”

Lestrade had to admit, it made a strange sort of sense…

      “That’s good thinking.  Sherlock, start sniffing.  I’ll show Arthur around.”

If Sherlock were one for inappropriate language, he would employ it now; however, it did give him a chance to survey the scene without Lestrade craning over his neck at every juncture.

      “Do not go far.  Arthur will need to take notes of my observations.”

      “Yeah and I have a little notebook and everything.  See, it’s got a big smiley face on it, which is going to bring us good luck.”

      “Smart planning.  I like a man who thinks ahead.”

      “Well sure, that’s why…. um… oh… that’s why you’re the boss here.”

Lestrade’s laughter nicely muted Sherlock’s ‘he is most certainly not my boss’ as they walked away to tour the house.

__________

      “Sherlock, let us handle this.”

      “Don’t be stupid.  We can find the gardener’s assistant faster than you can.  And Arthur would be much happier if the dog were found sooner than later.”

      “That I would.”

      “Do _not_ bring Arthur into this business.  You don’t steal a collar like that without having others in the game with you.  I’ll not let you race about putting Ar… anyone’s life in danger.”

      “Oh!  Don’t worry about that, Greg.  I’m very good at staying out of trouble.  Usually.  Just so you know, Mr. Sherlock and I met some very scary people while we were looking for Skip and I did a brilliant job of being someone who _didn’t_ get into trouble.”

      “Look Arthur, I am sure you are very able to keep body and soul together under normal circumstances, but London isn’t a place to be running about like a wild grouse, especially when you’re chasing people who are very good at getting _into_ trouble.”

      “Arthur is an adult, Lestrade and barring his arrest, you have no means to prevent him going anywhere.  Now, if you will excuse us…”

      “Hold on there, Sherlock.  I’m simply not comfortable with you and Arthur doing this alone.  Take a couple of the boys with you, at least.  Just to be safe.”

      “I am fully capable of keeping Arthur safe.”

      “You know damn well that you can’t predict what’s going to happen!  It’s one thing when John’s the one chasing after you, it’s quite another when it’s not someone trained to do it!”

      “Greg, it’s ok.  Really, Mr. Sherlock makes sure of that.”

      “Arthur, you don’t know what he’s like when he gets into something.  The rest of us vanish and hell take us all if the bullets start flying.”

Sherlock grabbed Lestrade’s arm and dragged the man closer, so that they were nearly nose to nose.

      “I said I will ensure Arthur’s safety.  He will _not_ come to any harm.”

      “Will you, Sherlock?  Can you guarantee me that you’ll pay attention, think about a situation before you just jump right in, be ready to drop everything… even the suspect… if Arthur is in trouble?  Can you?”

Sherlock’s scowl wavered a fraction and Lestrade, strangely, took that as a very promising sign.  The boy was thinking about what he said, not turning his normal deaf ear to the words and blundering on.

      “I can.   I… Arthur is more important than any dog or jewel or suspect.”

      “Even more important than your pride?”

Sherlock smirked and let go of Lestrade’s arm.

      “I wouldn’t have much pride left if I failed him.”

Lestrade could do nothing but nod and give Sherlock’s shoulder a firm squeeze.  Later, he’d let his own overwhelming pride out into the open where it couldn’t embarrass the young detective.

      “Alright then… off you go.  Arthur – I expect the same from you.  This skinny one gets into a jam, you’re to call me right away.  Got your phone?”

Arthur pulled out his mobile and handed it over to Lestrade, who input his own information as one of Arthur’s contacts.

      “There.  And I mean it the both of you.  No silly buggers that lands you in bandages.”

      “Brilliant!  Now I’ve got your number to go with all my other London numbers!  And I’ll be very careful, Greg.  I promise.  I won’t let Mr. Sherlock get hurt either.  We’re a good team, so we look out for each other.  Can we go now?  Please.  There’s a cab right over there and there’s no one in it…”

Arthur was dancing foot to foot and Lestrade just waved his arm to signal the running of the bulls.  Both of which nearly collided trying to be the first into the cab.  The Detective Inspector watched them run off, with their nearly jubilant faces and wondered when he’d last had that much enthusiasm for anything.  And Sherlock… dear god almighty… how far he’d come.  Lestrade wasn’t foolish enough to think Sherlock could protect Arthur from everything out there, but he was certain that he would absolutely do his best.  So far… so very, very far from the lost and empty young man he’d met years ago.  With a quick shake to get his head back in the game, the Detective Inspector turned back towards the house to return to his tragically-interrupted headache.

__________

Mycroft Holmes was not a happy man.  It had been hours since Sherlock and Arthur had left and there had been no communication with either man since.  The worst part was that neither chose to answer their mobile phones and routine surveillance scans had produced no sign of either.  This was an intolerable situation.  Sherlock loose in London was not of significant concern, in fact it had become a way of life for his brother, but Arthur… sweet and trusting Arthur Shappey… he should not be loose in London like a runaway child.  When he could suffer his anxiety no more, Mycroft drew out his mobile and made a call.

      “Lestrade here.”

      “Where are Arthur and Sherlock?”

      “Mycroft… good to hear your voice, too.  And I can’t help you with that.”

      “This is not the time for levity, Detective Inspector.  Where are they?”

      “Well, I’m afraid I can’t give you an answer, _Mr. Holmes_.”

      “WHAT!  You _will_ provide a report on…”

      “I don’t know where they are, so how can I answer you?”

How could the man be so flippant when Arthur’s condition was unknown?  This was not a situation that Mycroft would continue to allow. 

      “I do not appreciate your attitude, Detective Inspector.  Tell me what you know of the whereabouts of my brother and Arthur.”

      “ _I_ don’t appreciate you calling me up to yell at me, but you don’t hear me being rude about things.”

      “You will cease your unacceptable conduct and tell me the details of your encounter with Sherlock and Arthur.  Even someone like you must have an idea of the direction in which they have gone.”

Lestrade wondered if Mycroft heard the slap from the insult hitting his face.

      “Someone like me?”

      “I gave you an order, Detective Inspector.  A very simple and clear order.  Take care of Arthur Shappey.  And that was apparently too difficult a task for you.”

 Insults and slights were an everyday part of a policeman’s life but Lestrade felt as if he’d been blindsided by a train.

      “First off, you don’t give me orders.  Despite what you might think, I do not work for you.  Second…”

      “I assure you Detective Inspector, whereas you might not work directly for me, your superiors are more than aware to whom they answer and the place I hold in that hierarchy.  Therefore, when I give you a command, it is in your best interest to follow without question and ensure the job is done correctly.  Unlike tonight!”

Mycroft could barely see so thick was the haze in front of his eyes.  What was wrong with Gregory?  Why wasn’t he concerned about Arthur’s welfare?  Why was he arguing?  Had the man gone mad?

      “Look here, Mycroft…”

      “You _will_ use my proper address in official situations.”

      “Fine… look here you self-righteous, arse-headed bastard.  I told you, I absolutely told you that I didn’t want Arthur coming out on a job and that he would not be my responsibility if he did.  Anyway, he’s with Sherlock, so I’m sure he’s alright.  So bugger off and let me do my job!”

      “How dare you… though I should not be terribly surprised that your capacity for learned conversation vanished as quickly as your consideration for that poor child’s safety.  I should have known… the lower class is not renowned for their dedication to those outside of their immediate family.”

That punch took all of the air out of Lestrade’s lungs and made his eyes sting.  Or… perhaps there was another reason they were watering.

      “What did you just say?”

Was the man hard of hearing now?  Why was he being so difficult?  

      “And how could you, in any fashion, consider Sherlock a proper guardian for anyone!  He would abandon a baby in a cab if something interesting caught his eye outside of the window!”

      “Nice to know your regard for your brother rivals your regard for me.”

      “Ridiculous.  I would give my life for Sherlock, never simply for a man desperate to climb into my bed.  I assure you Detective Inspector, the only individuals allowed that proximity are those whose personal qualities are beyond reproach and failing to do your job in this most egregious fashion does not place you among that cadre.”

      “Detective Inspector isn’t good enough for Mycroft Holmes, is that what you’re saying?”

What was the man even talking about?  No wonder Arthur was lost in the city.  Gregory’s mind was obviously not in the game.  It was clear now why he was stagnating on the force.

      “With lazy and disinterested work such as this, that is clearly all you will _ever_ achieve.  And prostituting yourself to me will not facilitate your rise through the ranks.”

Lestrade had never, not once, felt his body go as quiet as it did at that moment.  Actually, it was the whole world that went quiet.  Completely and seamlessly silent.

      “No response?  At least you admit your incompetence in this matter.  Perhaps that will spur you to locate Arthur and Sherlock and ensure their safe return home.”

And the call was ended.  Lestrade stood staring at the device in his hand and quickly sought out a chair in which to sit before his legs gave out.  What…what had happened?  Why would Mycroft, no… Mr. Holmes… say those things?  Lestrade ran through his memories and items he had tried to bury began to resurface.  There had been hints, clues… he was a tool.  A device like the mobile in his hand.  Beyond that, he had no worth to someone like Mycroft Holmes.  He was a pawn who had disappointed the king and now was being sacrificed as punishment.  He’d been a fool.  He’d swallowed his worries and put on a winning smile only to get his teeth kicked out for his troubles.  Ok… ok… he still had a case to work and now, apparently, an Arthur to find.  That however, was _not_ one of his worries.  Unlike Mycroft, he _did_ think Sherlock would do the right thing and keep Arthur whole and healthy.

__________

Apparently, though, not clean.  Lestrade looked at the duo, who appeared for all the world like two small boys who’d been caught wresting in a mud puddle.  It was almost enough to bring out a laugh… almost.

Sherlock’s mind went on high alert the moment he caught sight of Lestrade as the man stepped out of the car.  Something was terribly wrong, even though none of the idiots with whom Lestrade worked noticed a thing.  His gait was off, his color was poor, there was a faint tremor in his motions, his eyes were glassy and trying to focus on too many things at once.

      “Mr. Sherlock, what’s wrong with Greg?  He looks like, well, I saw this film where aliens took over people’s bodies and they were almost just like normal, but not completely normal, but normal enough that most people didn’t notice except for one or two, but they died in the end so…”

      “I don’t know, Arthur.  But do not mention anything about it.  John would likely inform me that people do not like being told that they look like hosts for alien parasites.”

      “Oh, right!  Yeah… that makes sense.  But he…”

      “Sherlock!  Arthur!  What in the fuck are you two playing at?  Do you know how worried people have been?  What’s wrong with your phones?”

Arthur stood still as long as he could before running over and, after a moment’s hesitation to consider logistics, reached out and gave Lestrade a hug with only his fingertips touching the man’s back.  The quietly whispered ‘it’ll be alright, just you wait and see’ made no sense but made the sting return to the Detective Inspector’s eyes.  Then, as quickly as he ran over, Arthur ran back to stand beside Sherlock.

      “Arthur’s phone is non-functional and I had more important things to do than answer every pointless text or message that vied for my attention.  The time was better used catching your thief, which we did, as you can plainly see.  Arthur’s insights and actions were vital to the investigation and the capture of the suspect and I expect that your official report will document his contribution in a suitable fashion.”

Arthur’s face was glowing from the praise and Sherlock’s barely-hidden smile was genuine and clearly broadcasted both his approval of and affection for the man next to him doing a small dance in the river mud.

      “My official report will document exactly what your statements tell me, so you’d better do a good job with them.  Go sit over there and I’ll send someone over to talk to you.  And don’t give me those faces.  You either give your statements now or you’ll have to come by my office tomorrow and do it.  Might as well get it all over with tonight.”

Lestrade ignored Sherlock’s expected snort and, again, almost got a laugh out of Arthur’s expanded dance routine that was now accompanied by a self-composed song likely called ‘I get to give a statement like they do on the telly.’  For a moment, Lestrade stood thinking, then pulled out his mobile and texted John to let him know Sherlock and Arthur would be returning soon.  John could pass along the word to… anyone else that might be interested.

When the official duties at the river were completed, Lestrade put Sherlock and Arthur in a cab to return to Mycroft’s home.  Before he took his seat in the taxi, Arthur motioned Lestrade a small distance away from the vehicle and drew in a breath before speaking.

      “Is everything ok, Greg?  I probably shouldn’t say anything, in fact Mr. Sherlock told me not to, but you’re not looking any better and I’m getting a bit worried.  Did something… did anything happen after we left?  It’s ok, really… you can tell me.  And by that I mean you can _tell_ me because, well… Mycroft and I have had a lot of time to talk lately and… your name comes up quite often.  So, you know… you can tell me _anything_.  And I’ll _understand_ understand, if you know what I mean.  From what he tells me, you’ll be a very good person to add to my list of friends and friends help each other when they can.  You look like you can use some help, Greg… is there anything I can do?”

Though it did not remove one bit of bile from the memory of Mycroft’s words, Lestrade had to admit that he could respect the man’s concern for Arthur, who was as good and kind a person as was ever born.  And special people deserved all of the attention, care and protection the world could provide.

      “I’m… I had a bit of a rough time tonight, well… this morning, but it’s nothing that I won’t shake off in a day or two.  It’s good of you to ask, though, Arthur.  It means a lot that you did.  Thank you.”

Arthur lit up the night with his smile and that did finally bring at least the whisper of an answering smile to Lestrade’s lips.

      “Well, you’re welcome.  And here… give me your phone.”

Lestrade dutifully handed over his mobile to receive Arthur’s contact information.

      “Now you can call me whenever you want.  Even if you do get over your blues, you can still call anytime.  I love to talk to people and you can tell me about your cases and other policeman things.”

Arthur shuffled closer to Lestrade and the older man found himself leaning close to catch Arthur’s whisper.

      “Or if you want to talk about certain cuddly things because I already know and think it’s positively brilliant.”

With a final grin, Arthur jumped into the cab and Lestrade watched it drive away.  Poor Arthur… he was going to be crushed when he found out the truth…

__________

Mycroft sat behind the desk in his study, forcing himself to hack through the fog in his brain.  He hadn’t experienced a state like this since Sherlock’s last overdose… the one where they lost his brother for over a minute before he was granted one more chance at life.  How terrifying… and how wonderful that there was someone else in the world who could evoke in him such a visceral reaction.  Mycroft rose and poured himself a large brandy before taking a seat near the fire that was blazing brightly in the hearth.  It was on the third sip that his mind began to scroll through his conversation with Gregory.  The remaining sips slowly dripped onto the rug from the glass that hung loosely in Mycroft’s limp hand.  Only one thought, one single thought, sounded over and over in Mycroft’s mind.

What have I done?


	9. Sometimes We Need a Friendly Ear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to all who have taken time to leave thoughtful and inspiring comments! They make all of this very rewarding...

When John received the text from Lestrade that Sherlock and Arthur were safe and sound, all three men released a collective sigh of relief.  For Mycroft, that sigh was deeper than for the other two and for very good and carefully masked reasons.  He _very_ briefly considered calling Lestrade to thank him, then tossed aside the thought as quickly as if it burned his skin.  What would he say?  How could he begin a conversation with the man after the words that had flowed out of him the last time they spoke?  He hadn’t been curt, he hadn’t been brusque, he hadn’t even been cutting… he’d been cruel.  Intentionally hurtful.  Lashing out with knives in both hands to flay skin from bone and then rolling around in the blood like a crazed attack dog.

Mycroft had always been aware that a streak of cruelty ran within him but it had only ever seen the light when Sherlock had been threatened.  More than one schoolboy found themselves begging their parents to place them elsewhere after a ‘discussion’ that involved their treatment of Sherlock.  And the dealer who decided that a desperate and confused Sherlock made a very amusing target for his fists… he’d destroyed the man.  Physically, emotionally, financially… then he’d gone after the cretins who raised him to be such an immoral animal and the ‘wife’ who permitted and even encouraged his behavior as a sign of his supposed strength. Twenty-four hours after he’d found Sherlock bruised and broken, his beautiful curls cut from and in some cases pulled from his head, terrified for anyone to lay another hand on him… he’d left devastation in his wake.  Personally and with his own two hands he’d destroyed everything that even touched the man who savaged his precious baby brother who, fortunately, remembered little of the event.  And all through a thick haze that blocked out reason, rationality, care for consequence…  The medical personnel who had put Sherlock’s needs second because a junkie overdosing doesn’t merit the same attention as other patients.  None worked in the medical profession again nor found any location in the British Isles that was accommodating to their resettlement.  Moriarty… different.  He played a masterful game, entwining his dalliances with Sherlock with matters of state that tore Mycroft in so many directions he could barely remember his name.  And Sherlock suffered.  He didn’t protect him or avenge him as he was able and… that would never happen again. 

For everything else, Mycroft could maintain control of his anger, his sense of injustice or betrayal, the evidence of failure or indifference, but never when it came to Sherlock.  And now, apparently, Arthur.  It shouldn’t be a surprise, he supposed.  If there was a person alive that could so quickly burrow into the soul of everyone around him more quickly than Arthur Shappey, they probably lived carefully hidden and tended to by an army of monks in a mountain retreat.  It was a traitorous thought, perhaps, but Arthur filled those holes and gaps, often rips and tears, that Sherlock left in his life.  He desperately loved his brother, but it was often hard to _like_ Sherlock and even his nearly bottomless supply of patience had worn thin as overture after overture was thrown back in his face and he had to stand rigid to take countless lashings from Sherlock’s own razor-sharp tongue.  Sherlock never let him in.  Never accepted anything.  And never gave anything back.  Never.  Now… at least with others he was learning and trying to take other people’s needs and wants into account, but not for him.  Never for big brother Mycroft.  Never a word of thanks, a kind smile, the slightest show of affection… even if it was heavily shrouded and visible to none but the very few who could actually decipher the complexities of a Holmes man.  He loved his brother, but so often he _ached_ for wanting something akin to love in return.

Then into his life drops Arthur Shappey like a basket of kittens eating candy floss, playing with fuzzy toys and mewing the song of the angels.  Someone, like Sherlock, who the world did not understand and treated accordingly, but unlike his brother, someone who loved life and people with a passion that was inspiring.  And he was included in that love.  Everything he had ever secretly wanted in a younger sibling was embodied by Arthur, in addition to other attributes that he would have never have suspected he would appreciate.  It was so easy with the boy, who received gratefully and gave graciously… who would eagerly allow his own sad self to play a role in his life.  A role that was appreciated, wanted and encouraged.  He could be meaningful in a way that went beyond simply throwing out lifelines when he was drowning.  And Mycroft craved it like a drug.  Craved it as much as he did a challenge or a victory over a fierce opponent.  Craved it as much as he did every battle that kept the world humming along as well and safely as was possible.  Craved it as much as he did someone with whom to share all of that…

The worry, the acidic worry that burned in his gut nearly every day for Sherlock was then mixed with gasoline and set ablaze when it was clear that Arthur’s whereabouts were unknown.  Nothing mattered after that.  Not the person to whom he was talking, not the validity of the points of their argument, not the fact that his own words were irrational and baseless… Gregory had failed, Arthur could suffer for it and therefore… what happened now?  He was still exceedingly angry that the Detective Inspector had not kept a closer eye on Arthur, but the man had not deserved the brutalization he’d received at hands he had thought... belonged to a friend.  With great bitterness, Mycroft realized his romantic dilemma had been cleanly resolved by his actions.  That, at least. was one less problem that required his attention and such was always welcome.  It would be fine.  He had lived his entire life without a second half and had long ago resigned to spend the remainder of his years as alone as those that came before.  Gregory might have been the only person who had given him dreams of something different, but that did not mean those dreams would ever have been realized.  There was no use fretting about possibilities, there were enough realities to fret about as it was.  So why… why wouldn’t the hurt go away…

      “Mycroft?  Is everything… are you alright?”

Peeking around the door to his study was a freshly-showered, pajama-clad Arthur Shappey.

      “Oh course, Arthur.  Do come in and enjoy the fire.  I am quite sure a bit of warmth will be welcome after your adventure.  And… I almost forgot…”

Arthur scampered inside and curled up in the chair nearest the fire while Mycroft retrieved a bottle and two glasses from the sideboard.

      “I thought we could have a final glass of sherry together.”

      “Really!  That’s brilliant!  I have found that I do like a bit of sherry.  You’ll have to write down the name of the kind you like so I can buy some when I get home.”

Since it was highly unlikely that Arthur and Martin would be able to afford a bottle of what he was pouring, Mycroft opted for a tiny white lie.

      “Unfortunately, this particular option is not readily available outside of London, however, I will forward you the name of others that will provide a similar experience.  Besides, I would like for you to have something to look forward to when you return for a visit.”

      “That would be great!  I love to have things to look forward to.  Knowing you have a little something nice waiting for you makes your whole day light up! And I have so many things to look forward to in London, now.  London is almost better than the sun for making my day light up!”   

Arthur’s accepted his sherry and his hum of appreciation turned into a happy little sing-song that Mycroft knew he’d always think about when he indulged in a glass.  And it would be a ritual for him and Arthur from today forward.  A small measure of time set aside to relax and talk and share… perhaps alone or perhaps with others…

      “Will cousin Martin be joining us at some point?”

      “Probably not.  He said he was going to wash away his worries in a hot bath then settle in to read.  I think… I didn’t realize that Mr. Sherlock and I would cause such a fuss.  It was strange, but while we were looking for that poor dog, I sort of forgot about everything else.  My brain only thought about things that were about the case… I mean, I know we said we’d call, but I didn’t even think about telling Mr. Sherlock to give you a hello while we out there.  And I’m sorry for that, I really am.  But it was so exciting!  And so much fun!  And Mr. Sherlock made sure that Greg put that I caught the thief in the official report.  He was adamant about that, too.  Made the nice lady policeman who took our statements write it down just as he dictated it and said that if he read the final report and I wasn’t properly represented, he would notify the media that the police were guilty of falsifying official records, which sounds like a very bad thing and the lady policeman must have thought so too because she turned quite red and promised she’d do what she could.”

Mycroft smothered a smile at the thought of Sherlock browbeating a poor young constable to ensure Arthur received his proper recognition.  He had come so far…

      “And, now that we’re alone, I can tell you that Greg is BRILLIANT!  He is absolutely, positively wonderful and the best policeman anywhere.  I know because I got to watch quite a few policemen on this case and he was tops.  And he is a great teacher, just like Mr. Sherlock.  I learned all about police procedure, which Mr. Sherlock ignores but they let him because he’s so good at what he does, and how to secure crime scenes and talk to suspects the proper way so they can use the information in court to punish the criminals.  He’s funny, too, which is good since you’re funny and that means you probably laugh a lot which is amazing and very important.  You should laugh a lot with your boyfriend, even if you don’t do it with other people.”

Arthur’s bright eyes went a little dim and Mycroft’s concern spiked.

      “Maybe… maybe I shouldn’t say anything because people don’t always want you to know when something’s wrong and Mr. Sherlock said not to mention it when I talked to Greg, but I did anyway and he was glad I did and since you’re his boyfriend maybe you can be more help to him than I could and…”

      “Arthur…”

      “Oh!  Right… well, I don’t know how to say this, but something bad happened to Greg.  Something very, very bad… When he got out of the police car when we were at the river, both me and Mr. Sherlock saw that he looked terrible.  Like someone had just told him his Mum had died or something just as bad.  He wouldn’t say what was wrong, but I gave him a hug but that didn’t seem to help much so I gave him my mobile number, even though I don’t have a mobile right now, and my email address and home number too so he could get in touch any time, but also if he needed to talk about whatever made him so sad.  It was terrible, Mycroft.  I really think you should call him and find out what happened and make him come over for a little snuggle so he feels better.  It makes me want to cry that he’s feeling so miserable and is all by himself with no one to give him any hugs.  Do you think… can you do that?  I mean, I know you don’t want people thinking things before you make it all formal, but I believe that this is the time to make an exception.”

Arthur did look as if was going to cry and Mycroft felt a very large knife twist in his gut.  A very large knife dipped in salt and vinegar and heated in the fires of a blacksmith’s forge.  Arthur was describing pain.  The pain of grief and betrayal and it was making Mycroft very ill to know in his heart he had been the cause.  But why?  Anger he could understand.  Rage, even.  But this… this was what you felt when someone you dearly care for stabs you in the back.  Could it… no.  A fling… a mutually-satisfying affair.  Mycroft had harbored hopes that it would be something that _would_ last, keeping the man in his circle, but he never… Mycroft Holmes did not inspire true affection in others.  One did not _care_ for a man made of ice.  Desire, want… yes.  But truly care?  No… it wasn’t possible…

      “Mycroft?  Oh, I upset you didn’t I?  I’m so sorry!  Do _you_ need a hug?”

No one cared for a man made of ice except the person sitting in front of him.

      “Thank you, Arthur, but I am perfectly fine.”

      “Ok, no.  You’re starting to look like Greg and that’s no good.  You need a hug and a little chat.  So here goes.”

Arthur put his sherry aside and jumped over to give Mycroft a big, though slightly awkward hug.  Something Mycroft had experienced so rarely in his life that he had a difficult time remembering how to reciprocate properly.

      “Now, tell me what I said that upset… oh!  I’m so stupid!  You’re upset because Greg’s upset!  I can be pretty thick sometimes.  That settles things… you need to call him right away and you can talk and make him feel better and then you’ll feel better and I’ll feel better.  Wow… that makes _everything_ better doesn’t it.  One little call… so go ahead.  I’ll just be over here drinking my sherry and not listening in at all.”

Arthur put on a very extravagantly-innocent face and Mycroft felt himself chuckle despite his black mood.  This… this is exactly why little brothers were created.  Unfortunately however, Mycroft could not comply with Arthur’s wishes.

      “Communicating with Gregory is not a possibility at this time, Arthur.”

      “Oh… is he at work?  He doesn’t have to work all day and all night does he?  I would say that’s ridiculous and if _I_ think something is ridiculous then… whuff…”

      “His hours do tend to rival mine at times, but that is not the factor of significance.  This is something best left alone, Arthur.  Now… shall we…”

      “Nope.  I’m actually quite curious now, so I won’t be leaving anything alone.  Unless you really, really want me to, of course, because I wouldn’t ever want to be mean.”

Mycroft did really, really want him to but… sharing a pain occasionally lessened it…

      “Perhaps I should clarify the situation.  Gregory will not wish to speak with me because it is my fault he is, shall we say, out of sorts.”

Arthur’s mouth dropped and the empty sherry glass he lifted to his lips clearly startled him.  A quick refill and a nearly Sherlockian moment of scrutiny passed before he could finally respond.

      “Ok… I need you to explain that, Mycroft.  And use words I’ll understand.”

      “When I telephoned Gregory to ascertain your current status, his response was exceedingly unsatisfactory and…”

      “Mycroft…”

      “When I called Gregory, I was unhappy that he had let you, unattended, go off into the city with Sherlock.  I may have expressed this poorly and rather… strongly.”

      “Meaning?”

      “I may have said things that were both hurtful and untrue as a means of punishment.”

Arthur sat in his chair blinking and Mycroft felt more uncomfortable than he had at any time since childhood.  Mycroft Holmes did not disappoint people, yet disappointment was plainly scrawled across Arthur’s youthful face.

      “That… that does not sound like you, Mycroft.  You don’t hurt people like that.  You’re not _mean_ like that.  Especially not to people you care about.”

      “It _is_ like me when someone important to me… I told him to watch out for you, Arthur.  To keep you safe and he failed to do so.  My temper got the best of me; not a thing for the weak of heart to witness, I’m afraid.”

Arthur chewed his lower lip and Mycroft swore he could see the wheels and cogs turning inside the boy’s head.  Something he was very familiar with from his dealing with his brother.

      “I don’t understand.  Greg didn’t fail at anything.”

      “He let you chase after Sherlock into the… god knows where in London.  Do you have any idea how dangerous that was, Arthur?  Have you any inkling of the truly vile and despicable people that can be found once you step outside of the glow of a streetlight in this city?”

      “M…maybe not, but I was with Mr. Sherlock…”

      “Who cannot keep watch over his own safety, let alone yours.”

      “But he _promised_ Greg.  And I know him, Mycroft… he may not have been a very nice man in the past, but he’s… sort of nice now.”

      “Arthur, Sherlock _may_ have progressed…”

      “And you have to give him the chance to prove that!  How can he show people that he’s trying if no one gives him the chance to _prove_ he’s trying!  That was what he and Greg were fighting about and…

      “WHAT!  ARTHUR… Arthur.  What is this about Sherlock and Gregory fighting?”

      “Mr. Sherlock and I were ready to chase after the thief that took little Helen and Greg said that we couldn’t.  And he was adamant about that, too.  He even got a little red in the face when Mr. Sherlock said we were going to off to find Helen no matter what and then they had some words that were a bit cross and then they got nose to nose with angry faces and… well a lot was said but it boiled down to that if Greg didn’t let us go it meant that he didn’t _believe_ in Mr. Sherlock and Greg backed down right after that.  Because he _is_ willing to give Mr. Sherlock a chance to show that he’s trying and anyway… not to blow my own horn… but I’m not a little kid and there may be things out there that are very scary, but I _do_ believe in Mr. Sherlock and if I want to help him on a case, then I should be able to help him on a case.  And Greg got that and let us go and we solved the case and Helen got home safely.  So why would you be mad at him?”

The tightness in Mycroft’s chest would have alarmed him if he didn’t partly wish it was a heart attack that would leave him dead to lay at Gregory’s feet as a tribute.  Mycroft had always been the street sweeper when it came to Sherlock, but Gregory had been... the father.  And a father believes in his son… A promise from Sherlock was a pitifully rare thing to extract and to marginalize it would be… no father would spit in the face of a son offering something so precious.

      “Mycroft?  Oh god… here, hold on.”

The sherry glass vanished from Mycroft’s grasp and it was replaced by Arthur's large, soft, warm hand.  The rest of Arthur was kneeling beside Mycroft’s chair looking up with very concerned eyes.

      “It’s ok, Mycroft… it’ll be ok.”

No… no it wouldn’t.  Gregory had done the proper thing… the _right_ thing.  Given Sherlock the trust he needed.  And was torn to shreds for his belief in the young detective.  The issue wasn’t Arthur… the issue was Sherlock and his promise that Arthur would not come to harm.  Gregory had been _right_ … right right right right right…

Arthur gently disentangled his hand and poured Mycroft… something… from the sideboard, placing the glass in Mycroft’s hand and slowly guiding it upwards.  Mycroft’s body took over and drained the… oh, was that his 80 year-old whisky… in one gulp.  The glass vanished and Mycroft slowly pulled his scattered thoughts back from the million corners of his mind, guided by the soft press of a flannel pajama shirt against his cheek and a warm hand stroking his hair.

__________

      “Better?”

Mycroft’s internal clock registered an unexpectedly large number of minutes since his last purposeful thought and drew himself away from Arthur’s ministrations.  For his part, Arthur jumped back into his chair and stared at the older Holmes, vigilant for any further sign of distress.

      “Better aware, perhaps.  Which has greater value in this situation.”

      “What are you going to do?  As bad as you look now, Gregory looked even worse and I think that’s because he didn’t have anyone to talk to or listen to him.”

Lestrade was not without acquaintances, but Mycroft doubted that any of them would hear a word of what had transpired.  The only confidant with whom he might share his deepest troubles would be John, for John had done the same with him.  But… no.  He would not pursue that path owing to John’s connection to Sherlock and, indirectly, back to Mycroft.  He would anticipate the turmoil that would engender and hold fast to his secrets.  Gregory Lestrade would never seek solace if it brought distress to others.  He was self-sacrificing, caring, patient, vivacious, intelligent, compassionate, intuitive, courageous… everything Mycroft wanted in a partner.  None of which he deserved.  He had _slaughtered_ Gregory.

      “Can you fix this, Mycroft?  I mean… you’re the smartest person in the world, so I have to believe that you can fix this.  It wasn’t too bad, right?  You didn’t say anything too awful?”

      “You be the judge, Arthur.  I told Gregory he wasn’t good enough for someone like me and accused him of attempting to sell me his body to advance his career.”

Arthur’s face turned a shade of vermillion that could not be healthy.

      “Ok… I don’t often understand a lot of what you say, but I understood all of that and oh… that’s bad.  That’s really, really bad.  If someone said that to me, I would have to go somewhere and cry and I wouldn’t come out for a long, long time.  And even then… I don’t know if I could ever look that person in the face again, I’d feel so bad, especially…  Ok, here’s what I need to know.  Did you mean that?  Were you telling the truth when you said those things?  And don’t lie, Mycroft.  I _will_ know.”

Oddly, Mycroft didn’t doubt that in the least.  It was quite bizarre, but it was refreshing to know that if he did not speak honestly to Arthur about this particular issue, his duplicity would be exposed.  It _was_ motivation to confront his thoughts without filters, something he normally despised doing.

Gregory Lestrade was a mid-level officer of the law from a common background with little financial worth or societal standing… his education was basic and his interests were not what one would term unique…

_Yet he engages you intellectually… challenges you with fresh opinions and perspectives… you feel comfortable with him and have never sought to cut short a visit… you enjoy his company… it enriches you… you feel happy when you are with him…_

He is libidinous… sexually forward… wanton…

_You touched him first… caressed his hand in public for anyone to witness… he desires you sexually and that feels good… he respects you as a person and that feels good also… he finds you attractive and tells you, reminds you, frequently that you arouse him, which feels very, very good… and he is the consummate professional at his work… highly ethical and proud of what he has accomplished… on his own…_

      “No… I sought the quickest path to flay him open and took it.  I can offer no excuse beyond my consuming worry for your safety and my conviction that he had compromised it.”

Arthur dithered a moment then leapt out of his chair and dithered a moment more before squirming his way next to Mycroft in the older man’s own chair.

      “That’s actually exceptionally nice.  For me, that is.  It’s… I know that you’ll be there for me anytime I need you, Mycroft.  And you can expect me to jump up and muck in whenever you need something from me.  And that being said, I have to muck in now and tell you that you need to… I don’t even know if balloons and cake will be enough to say ‘I’m sorry.’  I don’t know if saying ‘I’m sorry’ will even be enough to say ‘I’m sorry.’  But I do know you have to find some way to do it, because if both of you look this awful right now and nothing changes… oh, I don’t want to think about what you’ll look like the next time I see you.  And… I want you to be happy, Mycroft.  You’re smart and have a lot of money and I’m sure you know a lot of brilliant people, but when Skip and I leave you’ll be here all alone again and that makes me hurt inside, especially since I know that Mr. Sherlock can be a bit of a bastard when it comes to you, but please don’t tell him I said that since it’s not terribly nice and I also said a word Mum would make me eat soap over.  Greg is a nice man and I think he’d be someone who it would be good to come home to.  And, _you’d_ also be someone who would be good to come home to, too, so that would be brilliant for him.”

      “Do you actually believe that, Arthur?  Would someone want to come home at the end of a long day to find me waiting?”

      “Of course!  A hundred million people would!  That a sticky wicket for you, isn’t it, Mycroft?  Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone, because it’s a sticky wicket for me, too.  I’ve wanted to be Skip’s boyfriend since the first second I saw him, but I thought he’d never want to be with someone… well, like me.  And if Mr. Sherlock hadn’t given me a bit of a push, I’d never have even tried to get Skip for my own.  So, I’m giving _you_ the push now.  Don’t let him get away, Mycroft.  I can tell you like Greg and it would be the complete opposite of brilliant if you didn’t do everything you could to make this up to him.”

Mycroft wrestled his trapped arm to slide around Arthur’s waist, drawing him even closer.

      “But what if Gregory doesn’t want that anymore?”

Arthur laid his head on Mycroft’s shoulder and let a long, quiet sigh escape his lips.

      “Then we make him change his mind.”


	10. Strategic Use of Allies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued thanks for comments and kudos! All are greatly appreciated!

Mycroft was very ambivalent about his unexpected trip to a Soviet republic best described as ‘problematic.’  He regretted deeply the necessity of cutting short his remaining time with Martin and Arthur, but was grateful for the enforced excuse to postpone facing and handling his gross mistreatment of a certain Detective Inspector.  Cowardice in any form disgusted Mycroft Holmes, yet he would not placate his dignity by denying that he was behaving in a stupendously cowardly fashion.

As Arthur prepared for him what became two grocery sacks of food to bring on the plane, he had asked Mycroft what his first step towards reconciliation was going to be.

_“So, what’s the plan?  I know you must have one because, well, you’re you and that’s the sort of thing you’re brilliant at doing.”_

_“If I am to speak candidly, I must confess that I have yet to conceive a protocol to successfully remedy my predicament.”_

_“Oh, that made my brain hurt.”_

_“I do apologize… as of yet, I do not have a plan.”_

_“Well, get along with it!  Seriously, Mycroft… Greg is a wonderful man and very handsome, too, and if you don’t do something you’ll lose him and then someone else will snap him up like a brand new Harry Potter book!  Then you’ll have a real problem, so start planning.  Oh and don’t let the Crisps with Cheddar and Chocolate Drizzle in that red container sit too long.  It gets a bit gluey…”_

_“I will enjoy that at my first opportunity.  And, I will make Gregory a priority when I return from my trip.”_

_“Have you said you’re sorry?”_

_“Not at this stage, but…”_

_“That’s ‘saying I’m sorry’ Point #1! You’re really lagging behind… instead of watching films on the plane, you need to be making your plan.  Here, take my notepad and get to writing.”_

_“Arthur, whereas I am quite honored to take possession of your ‘smiley face’ notebook, I will have access to copious amounts of paper.  You retain this with… oh, how efficient of you to have organized your case notes in different colors… so it cannot be lost in the haste of my travels.”_

_“Like that, huh?  I’ve got a brilliant pen that has lots of buttons, one for each color ink.  Mr. Sherlock said I did a smashing job of taking notes to make giving our statements easier.  But hey… wait a minute… you’re trying to send me off on a detour road, aren’t you… Well, it won’t work.  Whether you use my notebook or other paper, you need to get on to creating a plan.  You don’t have a lot of time, you know.  The longer you wait, the more the person thinks you’ve got a sneaky reason for saying you’re sorry, like you want a favor or something, and that mucks things up even more.”_

_“I promise, Arthur.  I offer you my solemn word that I will give this due consideration as soon as possible.”_

_“I am going to check in and make sure, you know.”_

_“I would expect no less.”_

Now, sitting in a very fine room in a very fine hotel, Mycroft took the first step towards his Machiavellian scheme for winning back Lestrade’s affections.  With the first round of his diplomatic negotiations completed and the likelihood of reconsideration by the opposition resting at a very low value at this juncture, Mycroft permitted himself to shed his suit, step into bedwear, sadly lacking in any form of sea, prairie or woodland creature, and fulfilled his promise to young Arthur.  A pen and paper in his hand, the elder Holmes began to outline his thoughts.  After ten minutes of staring at a blank page, Mycroft felt an unpleasant surge of inadequacy slam against his insides.  The art of the apology was practiced and perfected by anyone who moved in diplomatic circles, but those were almost entirely insincere, with both parties being very aware of the fact.  This one… this one had to radiate sincerity like cologne off of a broad and unclothed shoulder.  It had to convince and tantalize… make the recipient _believe_ and press to learn more.

And Mycroft had nothing.  For a few never-again-to-be-mentioned moments, he considered placing a call to Arthur for advice, but his self-esteem would never survive the communication, so he put aside his writing materials, lay back in his opulent bed, closed his eyes and just thought.  And thought.  When his mind refused to produce any potential avenue of successful action, it was time for a shower to reset his body and mind to a fresh, clean state.  And then more thought.

The hotel room had dark walls, dark carpeting… the bath was dark marble and the sheets on the bed were a rich and midnight blue.  Something bright... something with surprising splashes of color… if Arthur’s little notebook were here, it would be a truly jubilant item among the deep, near-royal hues.  A thought finally flashed through his mind and, despite the hour, he texted one of his lower-level functionaries with an instruction that, despite lacking any originality, would be a suitable first step.  With that accomplished and a few moments to forcefully push down the fact that, in this, Sherlock’s performance would trump his own, Mycroft settled back into the bed, this time to sleep.  However, he knew that one of his first actions upon recapturing his Detective Inspector would be to take necessary steps to rectify his second-place status, from a romantic standpoint, to his brother.  There was simply no other option if he was to continue to live and breathe.

__________

It wasn’t a common occurrence that Mycroft employed the surveillance equipment inside of Lestrade’s office, but he had enacted measures to access all possible security feeds from any digital device in his possession and this afternoon’s viewing pleasure was inside that bland office overrun with files and folders, housing a...  Gregory looked terrible.  Mycroft rued the fact that certain security feeds had been upgraded to color transmission because the ashen pallor of the Detective Inspector’s skin was most distressing.  And he had sufficient observational data on Lestrade’s behaviors, gestures and habits to know the man was significantly off his game.  Every movement was half-hearted.  Subordinates had to repeat themselves, too much time was spent simply staring into space… Arthur was right.  Lestrade appeared as one who had lost something or someone dear to them.

There were terrible feelings battering Mycroft Holmes, and he was barely able to contain the pressure from the onslaught.  Shame, self-loathing, frustration…  He had held in his hands that which he had always wanted and denied it at every turn before crushing it under his heel.  And now he wanted it back.  There sat _his_ Detective Inspector and he could not reach out and take him.  He _could_ have… the opportunities had been placed squarely in his palm and he’d turned over his hand to let them fall to the ground.  Frustration… frustration with his own stupidity and inaction.  But also a horrible satisfaction and dark glee that this was his doing.  His own insecurities and doubts were ashes seeing how ravaged was the man on the screen.  He had been wanted, and not solely in a companionable or sexual fashion.  He had been wanted in a manner than ran deeper, more fully into the heart and soul and it was highly inappropriate that Mycroft’s smile was rising, but he would punish himself at a later time.  For this was the fuel he needed.   The fuel to drive him to mend the man he was watching and win him back no matter how long it took or how high the cost.

Mycroft watched Lestrade every moment he could, giving silent thanks that nothing called the man out of his office and into the field.  When the large bouquet of flowers he’d ordered for the Detective Inspector arrived, Mycroft shivered in anticipation waiting for the man’s response.

It was magical to see the flash of Lestrade’s bright smile when the massive bundle was placed on his desk, but the magic turned very black very quickly when he plucked out the card.  Lestrade dropped it as if it were a burning coal and jumped back from his desk looking for all the world like as if he’d been struck.  Mycroft watched with sick horror as Lestrade proceeded to place a large dent in a file drawer with his fist then systematically take apart the admittedly inefficient organization system of his office work.  The term Mycroft believed was ‘trashing his office.’  When the tornado finally lost it’s energy, Lestrade simply dropped himself into his chair and sat with his head held in his hands, breath heaving and Mycroft desperately wished the audio gain was sufficient to make clear the muttering his ears barely registered.  Some poor constable nearly caught a forcefully-thrown stapler in the face when they opened the door to check the situation, but that did seem to draw Lestrade out of his current state of mind and back to reality.

The one thing that had survived the maelstrom was, surprisingly, the flowers.  Mycroft watched as Lestrade reached over and almost seemed to pet the delicate petals with a trembling hand, staring at their beauty with slightly shiny eyes.  Then they, too were ripped apart in fit of fury that was absolutely terrifying for someone so genial as the Detective Inspector.  Mycroft was actually surprised the man was able to successfully retrieve his mobile from his pocket, likely to place an unhappy call to maintenance.  He was _further_ surprised when his own mobile chimed from across the room.

      “YOU SADISTIC TWISTED SON OF A BITCH!”

There was no mistaking the voice on the other end of the line, even without the context clues in the sentence.

      “Gregory, I have no idea…”

      “YOU DO NOT GET TO USE MY NAME!  AND YOU WILL STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME.  I’LL… I’ll file papers, if I have to.  Won’t be so cocky when you’re silk-shirted friends hear you’ve been… Just stay the fuck away, do you hear!”

Mycroft had absolutely no clue how to respond to Lestrade’s rage, until he had some information to work with.

      “You have me at a loss…”

      “Just tell me you’re not taking my job.  For christ’s sake, just don’t have me sacked.  I didn’t do anything and… I’ve got to work.  Please don’t take that from me.”

Very cold winds were blowing through Mycroft Holmes, leaching away the heat from his limbs leaving them heavy and limp.

      “Gre… Detective Inspector, I have no interest in removing you from your position.  I…”

Mycroft broke off, choking down the words as he listened to ‘thank god’ over and over from Lestrade.

      “Gre… Gregory.  You have to tell me what’s wrong?”

      “Oh like you don’t know. And aren’t completely thrilled about the whole thing.  I knew you could be cold, _Mr. Holmes_ , but I never…you don’t need to put me in my place anymore because you already made that damned clear, so stay the FUCK away from me and get your jollies somewhere else.”

Mycroft was very glad they were not using old-style phones because he was sure his ears would have bled from the volume of the receiver being slammed down into place.  Sitting and staring at his mobile was neither a productive nor an efficient use of his time, but he found it was the only thing of which he was capable at the moment.  It took several seconds before he could even begin to think…

_Gregory had adored the flowers on first sight.  His fact lit like a warm candle flame and it had made Mycroft’s heart soar.  The dousing came with… the card.  The card… something to which Mycroft never gave a second thought…_

A quick press of a button and Mycroft was in contact with the young woman who tended such things for him.

      “The card.   What was on the card?”

      “The card?  I’m not sure I know what you mean, sir.”

      “The card on the bouquet I had sent to Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

      “Oh!  The usual for someone who’s done work for you.  ‘For your service.  M. Holmes.’  Is there something wrong, sir?”

Wrong… oh, there was much that was wrong.  In his current frame of mind and with the words between them… Mycroft could not see a way that Gregory would have taken that message in a positive light.  Or think it was anything _but_ sadistic.

      “No, not at all.  I was simply confirming a small issue.  Thank you.”

Would there come a day when his actions towards the Detective Inspector were anything but foolish?  Mycroft wanted to kick himself for being so negligent.  Or so inexcusably lazy and privileged.  Using a subordinate to send a gift was acceptable as long as that gift was not (a) an apology for exceedingly disgraceful treatment and (b) a gesture to rekindle some flicker of romance.  Perhaps he _should_ have contacted Arthur before he took action.  _He_ would not have forgotten about the sentiment on the card.

Anything and everything he could… that was Mycroft’s resolve.  He could not take back the flowers and he could not return to London at the moment, no matter how great was the pull.  And it _was_ great.  He had never experienced a pull towards a person like he had when seeing Lestrade lapse into such distress.  To take that away, scoop up the man in his arms and make all of the hurt, bitterness and anger fade away… the urge to do all of that was nearly overwhelming, but since it was not possible, he needed to find some other method to comfort the Detective Inspector, until such time as he could implement a more carefully thought out plan for proceeding forward.  One method did come to mine, but it was certainly not preferable. However, with no better option presenting itself, as much as he did not enjoy this course of action, he could see little choice.

__________

      “Hello Mycroft.  What are you going to try and convince me to do today?”

      “Ah John… you are not incorrect that I have a task for you, however, it is one you shall not be able to refuse.”

      “That is in no way comforting, just so you know.”

There was a time, growing dimmer in his memory, when Mycroft considered himself careful and effective with language.

      “I do apologize, that was poorly stated.  And… that is ultimately the crux of the task for which I am seeking your assistance.  Do you have a few moments free?  Without Sherlock eavesdropping?”

His brother would find out at some point, however, the closer was his dilemma to being resolved, the less damage Sherlock could do when he jumped into the fray.

      “Yeah, actually.  He’s up in his lab and I doubt I’ll see him for hours.  Took an entire bag of human small intestine up there, so he’s in heaven.”

      “Good.  And before I begin… thank you, John.  For what you did for Martin.  Your treatment was exceptional and the disposition of the entire situation was very satisfactory.”

      “You’re buttering me up for something big, aren’t you?”

      “Not at all.  Well, not entirely.  I do appreciate your efforts for Martin and your continued efforts for Sherlock, both which earn you any favor it is ever within my power to grant.  Now, I must ask if you would be willing to utilize your skills for one additional, personal, issue.”

That _did_ pique John’s concern.  As far as he knew, Mycroft didn’t have much in the way of personal issues, except for…

      “More family?”

      “No.  Not as such, though it is not a completely inaccurate title for his role in Sherlock’s life.”

John’s ran through any and all possibilities and was not shocked that only one name came to mind.

      “Greg?”

      “Quite.”

      “What’s wrong?  I just saw him the other day and he looked fine… did he get hurt?  Details, Mycroft!”

      “Hurt is an appropriate term.  The story I have to tell is not pleasant, John, and I would take it as a personal boon if you did not choose to share the details you are requesting with Sherlock until such time as there is some degree of solution to this problem.”

      “I can’t make promises on that.  You know your brother.  Even if I don’t say anything, he’ll know the whole story by which shoe I put on first in the morning.”

      “Regrettable, but true.  I will be satisfied if you do your best.  Now, shall I begin?”

Mycroft had already decided that candor was the wisest course of action, but he was not sufficiently prepared for the inner turmoil he would feel detailing his history with Gregory Lestrade, his own feelings and the destruction that currently surrounded one broken man in an ugly, institutional office.  From the silence on the line after he finished, he suspected John was experiencing his own internal unrest.

      “John?”

      “Yeah... yeah, just give me a minute.  I mean… wow.  Ok, you and Greg… didn’t see that coming.  Nope, not one bit.  But you know what is really unsettling me?  I can _see_ it.  And that’s… that’s haunted house scary, no offense.  Now I see why you don’t want Sherlock finding out.  He’ll be on a roof again and this time it won’t be faked.  But I’ve gotta tell you, Mycroft… what the hell?  I thought _my_ Holmes was inept when it came to people, but I think you’re right up there with him on the medal stand.  Which is strange since you’ve always seemed to me like someone who at least knew how to _pretend_ to get along with people.”

      “I can assure you, John, that this is a unique situation for me.   When I do not ‘get along’ with someone there is a very concrete and pressing reason.”

      “Yeah and good for you tossing the bastards who hurt Sherlock in the jet blast.  One day you really need to sit down and talk with him, you know.  He doesn’t realize any of this... any of _anything_.  It might make a difference in…”

      “That is something to consider for the future, though I doubt that anything will come of it.  However, my current situation is a more timely concern.”

      “I’ll say.  Look Mycroft… I get it.  The Watson temper has brought me my own share of grief and I know that one day Sherlock will do something truly maddening and I’ll turn it full force on him.  Won’t be pretty for either of us when it’s over, though I don’t think I have a fast enough mind to be as lethal in my insults without getting pummeled first by His Majesty.  Honestly, though… I’m not sure what you want me to do here.  I’m not a relationship counselor.”

      “What I am hoping is that you will agree to speak with Gregory and explain the little miscommunication with the flowers and, if that can be accomplished, perhaps remove a few coals from his fire so that he might be agreeable to speaking with me on… the other incident.”

      “Incident… you posh types do like your euphemisms, don’t you.  I’m not going to tell you to get your hopes up about that, Mycroft.  I mean… maybe if he hadn’t just got his bollocks kicked into his throat by his ex-wife and their divorce settlement, on top of the stupid cow’s cheating.  And the flak he had to deal with over Sherlock.  And, well… you did kind of string him along there.  Not that I don’t get _that_ too, been there before myself, but… it’s a lot, you know?  I think I can get him to understand the card, though I _will_ call you a self-important tit for not sending the damn bouquet yourself, but he’s going to be gun shy about putting his neck out there again.”

His wife… that had slipped Mycroft’s mind completely and it now added another layer of regret to his behavior.  That had been a terrible ordeal and now… no, it would verge on miraculous if Lestrade would be willing to place himself in a position that might gain him further pain.

      “All I ask is that you make the attempt, John.  I cannot do anything at this point, though I dearly wish I could.  Any assistance you can provide would be far more than I can muster and will be most appreciated.  I am very out of my element with this… I very nearly called Arthur for advice.  He is aware of the situation and… is rather intuitive at times.”

Hearing John’s familiar giggle at least loosened some of the tightness in Mycroft’s chest.

      “You should have!  He would have given you an earful and started drafting battle plans with craft paper and colored markers.  But, it does explain something, I’ve been wondering about… last thing he said to me, just a whisper in my ear, was ‘take care of Mycroft.’  Guess I know why now… Here’s what I’ll do.  I’ll give Greg a call and see if I can drag him out for a few.  His mood always improves with a couple of pints in him.  We’ll have a chat, get a little drunk… take some of the fire out of him.  Yeah… I’ll do that today, so… we’ll see.  And Mycroft… I know this wasn’t easy for you.  Calling me, I mean.  Seems like something you’d have to be very desperate to do.  You really want this thing with Greg to work out, don’t you?”

      “I do, John, though I was not fully aware of that fact until the option was removed from the proverbial table.  He is… he means something to me.  His presence fills a place I never knew was empty and I will always feel the loss if he never stands with me again.  Now, unfortunately, I must say farewell.  I am currently eight minutes late for a meeting of no little importance, but… please let me know of your progress.  I will respond as soon as I am able.  And John… thank you.”

      “Sure thing.  Good luck… for everything.”

__________

      “Lestrade.”

      “Yes you are, so it’s lucky this pint’s got that name on it.”

      “Ha ha, John.  Look it’s not really a good time…”

      “Yeah, I think it is.  Come on out, mate.  We’ve got things to talk about, right?”

Lestrade stared at his desk a moment and wondered why in the world he thought his problems could remain private.

      “No, not really.  Pretty clear cut if you ask me.  Now, I have things to do and…”

      “What you have to do is come out and have a few pints with me and get all this off of your chest.  Look, I sat with Martin for a full day eating ice cream and watching atrocious telly, so I can sit with _you_ drinking lovely ale and watching atrocious attempts at drunken flirting.  I got to hear Mycroft’s side of things… don’t you want me to hear yours?”

      “No.  Yes.  I don’t know… you’re alone, right?”

      “God, yes!  I’m not insane, you know.”

      “Well, there are those who would…”

      “Shut it, you prat.  Now, I am placing your order in exactly ten minutes.  If you’re not here, I’m signing your name on the slip, drinking your booze then going home to make a porn video with Sherlock that I’ll make you watch before I let him help you with another case.”

      “I’ll be there in five.”

__________

John was purely appalled when his friend stepped into the pub.  Even in the poor light he could see the man was suffering.  After the hell he’d been through, it made sense, but it was disheartening to see in person.  Even if John didn’t get anywhere with their conversation, it was good he got Greg out for a little relaxation.

      “John.  How’s things?”

      “Quiet, now that Martin and Arthur are gone.  That was a bit of a hurricane, but good times, really.”

      “Shame I never got to meet Martin.  He must be a good bloke if he caught Arthur’s eye.”

      “You want a pocket version of him, don’t you?”

That drew the first real laugh out of Lestrade’s lips since his razing by the elder Holmes.

      “A couple of them, if I could.  That has to be the sweetest kid I have ever met.  And Sherlock… I tell you John, I was proud as I could be at how Sherlock treated that boy.  Got himself another friend, I’d say… and that’s not something I thought I’d _ever_ say.”

      “Same here.  I think Sherlock saw something familiar in Arthur and it made him feel comfortable.  Sort of a kindred spirit kind of thing.  Besides that… really, who would not adore Arthur?”

      “No one!  At least not anyone who had half a heart in their chest.  Wish I could have spent a bit more time with him… he was actually interested in police work!  Asked some good questions… strange questions, but good questions.”

      “Well, I would say that if you want more of Arthur, just ask and he’ll be on the next train to London.  And Mycroft is going to get him set up with video conferencing, so that will be an interesting thing.”

John had been watching Lestrade with a doctor’s eye since he saw how poor was the man’s condition.  He’d been relaxing and brightening with their talk of Arthur, but the mention of Mycroft’s name brought the tightening of his muscles and the nearly haunted look back to Lestrade’s face.

      “That… that’ll be fun for you.  Tell him I said hi, ok?”

      “You can tell him yourself.  Come on, Greg… talk to me.  You look like death, mate, and I bet you feel the same way.”

Lestrade drained his pint and John simply motioned the server to bring another.

      “That’s an understatement.  And… it’s ridiculous, John, and I know it is.  I read it all wrong and Mycroft slapped me down for being stupid.  He didn’t have to be such an arse about it but what’s done is done.”

      “You’re so full of crap it’s beginning to flow out of your ears.  I talked to him, Greg.  I got the story… maybe not the whole story, but a lot of the story and I know what he did.  You danced around each other, things got a little heated, he turned on you when he lost his nut over Arthur.  And I got the story on your little present, too.  Sorry, but he’s got you wired for surveillance just like Sherlock and me and it’s not what you think, Greg.  You’ve got it wrong about your gift.”

      “You know, when I saw that double-armful of flowers that probably cost as much my rent for the month, I got a little hopeful.  Something so extravagant and romantic.  I almost started to think maybe… and then not even a fucking ‘I’m sorry’ on the card!  Not for Greg Lestrade… oh no, I get another blade in the gut because I guess Mr. Holmes didn’t think I was smart enough to learn my lesson the first time.”

There was a wildness building in Lestrade’s eyes that reminded John painfully of Martin’s own manic and glassy eyes when he talked about Sherlock’s behavior.  It seemed both Holmes men had that special ability to strike directly at the heart of a person.

      “Look, Greg…”

      “Called me a whore, John!  A fucking whore!  I haven’t… I haven’t done anything with anyone since my wife and…  I don’t know.  Maybe I came on too strong, but I’m no one’s whore!”

John laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder to try and calm his distress, since the entire pub was beginning to take an interest in their conversation.

      “No, you’re not.  And Mycroft’s a big boy, if he didn’t want to try things with you, he could have let you down easily and that would have been that.  He… all you did is kiss anyway, right?”

      “Yeah… some pretty steamy texting, too.  But nothing else.”

      “Ok, so he’s daft in the head about that.  But look here… I’ll put cards on the table.  Mycroft called me and asked if I’d talk to you.  Not to say he’s sorry or try and fix what went wrong, but… he saw how you reacted to the flowers and it confused him so he checked it out.  Stupid git had one of his drones send the flowers and you got the generic card and not one that said what he really felt.  He was a moron and it took a bite out of his arse, but there wasn’t anything sinister behind it.  And I believe that’s the truth.  I mean… he called _me_ and asked for help for this.  Stooped so low as to actually fill me in on the specifics.  That says something, Greg… you know it does.”

The tight muscles under John’s fingers began to ease the more he spoke and when John pulled his hand away from Lestrade’s shoulder, the older man had lost a great deal of his anxious tension.

      “That much, at least, was a mistake.  A horrible mistake, but you have to understand that it didn’t mean any of the things you thought it meant.”

Lestrade drained half of his second pint in a single swallow and John motioned for a third to be prepared.

      “And how do you know what I thought it meant?”

      “I don’t.  Mycroft did, though and he filled me in.  And I can’t say I wouldn’t have thought he was being a sick, sadistic bastard myself.  He wasn’t though, Greg.  He sent those flowers because… well, he tried to take a page from Sherlock’s playbook, if you can imagine that.  Do something unexpected and romantic and he just cocked the whole thing up.  I’d be surprised if either of them have ever sent flowers to someone on their own to even think about what goes on the card.  Sherlock dodged that bullet, but Mycroft couldn’t go around picking you a handful since… I don’t think he’s actually in the country.”

      “Git better hope Sherlock doesn’t find out about that… he would _never_ hear the end of it.”

This time, each man let free a little laughter and John finally felt able to sit back in his chair, instead of staying on point to intervene if Lestrade’s emotions started to get out of control.

      “I think he would, though.  Pick flowers, I mean.  It’s weird, but after watching Mycroft with Arthur, I can see him picking a bunch of wildflowers during a long walk.  He showed a little more of himself during the past few days and what he showed was… good.  Get him in the right situation and he’s got some warm spots among all the ice cubes.  And, let’s face it, your flat is worse than ours.  If the prim and proper Mycroft Holmes sat around your tatty table and drank out of your mismatched glasses and had a good time… warm spot.”

      “I don’t know, John.  I can… maybe I overreacted today.  I haven’t been right in my head since the other night and this hit me in exactly the wrong place.  But… I’m not ready to think about anything else.  I don’t even think I’m ready anymore to consider starting something with him or anyone.  I thought I was… thought I’d found someone I could… now I don’t know.  Think I may just put any thoughts of romance aside for awhile, at least until I’m sure I’ve met someone who’s good for me.”

John wanted to step up and say that Mycroft was good for Lestrade, but honestly, he didn’t know if that was true.  He thought it _could_ be true, but it would take work and commitment and it was the same thing he and Sherlock were living through.  Something he worried about, actually.  He loved Sherlock so deeply not a portion of his soul didn’t bathe in that love, but he was not so naive to believe that loving someone automatically meant you could make a life with them.  After all they had endured, John believed to the bottom of his heart that both he and Sherlock would willingly take every step possible to build the life they both wanted with each other.  But he would never be so bold as to make that assumption for anyone else. Especially for someone as enigmatic as Mycroft Holmes.

      “You have to do what’s best for you, Greg… I won’t argue that.  Just don’t make any hasty decisions.  Maybe taking a little break’s not a bad idea.  Leaves you more time for drinking, at the very least.”

      “Like I need that!  Turning into a right alcoholic if I don’t watch out.  I honestly don’t know what I want, John.  What I do know is that I’m tired of being old and thrown away.  Maybe I need to hit a few pubs, pull a few people and build myself back up.  I can’t say I like the hit-and-run approach, but I won’t deny there’s a benefit in having some fun and not hanging around long enough for the critique to start up.  I just don’t know…”

      “Well, before you turn into a tart, don’t lose sight of the fact that you do have someone standing in the wings who _does_ hope you’ll want to give a real relationship another try.  I’m not saying jump right back into things, but… well, at least be willing to tell him to his face you want some time or space.  Or… or if you want him to go to hell and stay there.  Mycroft gave me that advice and I can’t say it’s not spot on.”

John watched Lestrade down the rest of his second pint and a good quarter of his third, then run his finger through the water left behind on the table by the glasses the server cleared away.

      “Not today, John.  Or tomorrow.  Maybe, after a few night’s sleep I can talk to him.  I… I had hopes, you know?  Something about Mycroft made me _care_.  And dream.  Hard to have that take a bullet.  No promises, but I can at least think about it.  And you can tell Mycroft I buy his story about the flowers, so we’re square on that.  The rest… I can’t do more than think about it.”

Which was all John could have hoped.  The next few hours were spent as they normally were, with lots of good conversation, sharing of stories about Sherlock and, now, other members of the extended Holmes family.  There was even the occasional mention of Mycroft that didn’t have Lestrade retreating inward into a protective silence and it was quite late when John rolled Lestrade into a cab and hailed another for himself.

When John arrived at the flat, Sherlock was still locked in his lab, so the soldier in him decided to do his duty and make his report.  The good doctor was actually very surprised when Mycroft answered his mobile and he didn’t get sent to suffer in voicemail hell.

      “John, you have news?”

      “You could say that.  I think you can rest easy about your complete botching of the flower delivery.  I got his head righted quite nicely on that one.  Score for me…”

      “How much did you have to drink?”

      “Oh… lots.  So did Greg, which is why he’s in a pretty good mood about things.  Well, as good possible.  He’s really hurting… I mean, he _likes_ you.  I think he thought you might be special, if you know what I mean.  Which is odd, if you think about it, but maybe not so much, really.  Yeah… I had a lot to drink… oh! he’s also old and tired, at least that what he says and he may need you to back off for awhile.  I think he’ll talk to you first, but just so you know, he may go on the pull and try to feel like he’s got it again.”

      “It?”

      “You know… it.  The extra octane in the tank.  I completely understand that one.  Lucky I got myself a young one at home.  Makes me feel like _I_ still got it, too.”

      “I believe I am following the intent of your message, but correct me if I’m in error.  Gregory no longer bears me ill-will over the sadly worded sentiment for my gift, but still harbors doubts about the future of our relationship.”

      “Something like that.  You forgot about him feeling used up and not worth much.  You really put a can of gas on that fire, didn’t you?  And he’s not a whore!  You better tell him that first off when you talk to him.  Shame on you for that you pompous penguin.”

      “Is Gregory in a similar state as yourself?”

      “Oh he’s right pissed.  Don’t worry, I got him in a cab so he’ll be ok.  But he left smiling, which is a sight better than when he arrived.  Looked like a zombie.  I almost took a photo.  Look, here’s the thing.  He was ready and now he’s scared.  Can’t blame him.  It’s going to take time and he might not want anything to do with you while that time… times.  But if you play your cards right, you might just coax him back because he’d rather be with you than anyone else.  Not that he said that, mind you, but I could tell.  I’m a doctor after all.”

Mycroft tried to respond, but held back hearing the scuffle on the other end of the call.

      “Why are you talking to John when he is inebriated?  Do not think you can use his diminished capacity to secure a promise for any of your pointless and boring government matters.”

      “Not a speck on the horizon of my intentions, dear brother.  I was simply calling to check that Arthur and Martin’s departure was successful and left no unfinished business behind.”

Fortunately, though Sherlock would not believe a word he had said, Mycroft knew he had insufficient clues to make any reasonable deductions about his true purpose.

      “There is no unfinished business.  And Arthur notified me earlier that they arrived safely in Fitton.”

Which corroborated Mycroft’s own sources of information.

      “Good.  Very good.  Then my concerns are laid to rest.  Do thank John for his time, will you?”

Mycroft expected no response and was not put out when none was given.  But, as always, the good doctor had performed admirably and that was a success of great value.  It was no more than Mycroft had calculated could be achieved, but it was the _most_ Mycroft had predicted John could achieve, so at some point the doctor would receive some small token of his profound appreciation.  Time and space… those Mycroft could grant with ease.  He might… it was not unreasonable for Gregory to feel the need for personal validation after his experience.  To feel worthwhile and desirable.  However, this was not something Mycroft was certain he could tolerate.  A very deep and primal possessive streak was growing within him and although his mind could rationalize the need for the Detective Inspector to use companionship as a vehicle for restoring his self-confidence, the newly-born primitive side of Mycroft Holmes raged against the idea.  It was inappropriate and undeserved, but Mycroft felt no compunction to cordon off these emotions and deny their existence.  He would try to honor Lestrade’s wishes but… well, what his dear Gregory did not know, could not hurt him…


	11. The Best Laid Plans... and Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so grateful for all of the kudos and fantastically-thoughtful comments. I cherish every one...

If Mycroft could carry home with him any measure of success from his trip, it was purely on the diplomatic side of his statement of objectives.  It took several more days of tedious, but tricky negotiations to secure his demands and during those several days, he had scarcely _any_ time to turn attention to his personal dilemmas.  John had bought him much-needed time and the crack in the Lestrade’s fortress wall that was absolutely necessary for any form of communication to be possible, but it was his turn now.  And… at the very least Gregory knew that he had made _some_ gesture and disastrous as it was ultimately, there had been effort on his part.

What free time he had was spent watching his Detective Inspector go about his day, both at work and at home, slowly gaining back the energy he had lost trying to heal his wounds.  For every second of time Gregory suffered for his actions, he would be repaid a hundredfold.  That promise Mycroft made the man over and over, with no less commitment the last time than the first.  Additionally, the elder Holmes had to contend with the barrage of concerned texts from Arthur, demanding status updates with the frequency of the most exacting battlefield general.  The young man was not at all pleased with Mycroft’s lack of progress, either, stating his displeasure in perfect Arthurian English.  The phrase ‘treacle in January’ was bandied about and Mycroft now apparently shared the title of ‘chicken britches’ with his younger brother, something which would _not_ be added to his resume.

What was, however, the main thrust of Arthur’s continued communication was the need to make haste and Mycroft could not disagree.  Lestrade had been left too long with only his own thoughts as evidence for any decision on their future and Mycroft knew that the longer that persisted, the more entrenched that decision would become.  He needed his own words to be heard, an opposing view… perhaps even a statement of emotion offered as a token of trust and sincerity.  This was how he knew Lestrade was different.  For no one else had Mycroft ever found himself so completely dedicated and eager to rectify the hurt he had caused in a relationship.  For any other, the bouquet of flowers would have been a parting gift, of sorts… never a statement of contrition and a plea for forgiveness.  Now, he had to make Lestrade realize how important a person he had to be to cause such an upheaval in Mycroft’s life.

The trick was how… the first step was always the most important for any endeavor.  Too far or fast and Gregory would startle and retreat.  Too little or too slow and Gregory would assume his own perceptions were correct and, again, retreat.  The proper balance… time and space John had said.  Those were the variables of note.  And esteem…  Mycroft could in no manner comprehend how someone as vital as Gregory Lestrade could perceive himself poorly, but that was an issue with which he himself had experience and, tragically,  possessed absolutely no strategies to overcome.  If he had… he might not be in his current predicament in the first place.

Though no one would, perhaps save Arthur and one day, Gregory, would ever know of Mycroft’s fondness for _The Wizard of Oz_ , one line from the film was a guiding principle for everything he had ever done and would ever do – _these things must be done delicately… or you hurt the spell_.  As always, it was entirely appropriate to the situation at hand.

_Goal 1 – Reestablishment of contact.  Goal shall be achieved through_

Through… how to bring Gregory into his sphere?  At this point, a direct invitation might be unwarranted and likely declined; however… he could not be faulted for simply being in the same location at the same time as the Detective Inspector.  Mycroft might have a very long reach, but even he did not control the hand of fate.  A happy accident, a fortuitous coincidence…  very useful and oh so easy to arrange.

_Goal 1 – Reestablishment of contact.  Goal shall be achieved through coincidental meeting at location to be determined._

_Goal 2 – Reestablishment of communication.  Goal shall be achieved through_

Through… for this item, direct invitation _could_ be the best approach.  It might be as easily achieved as asking Gregory to meet him for the specific reason of communication about their respective viewpoints. Respective… that would be key.  Gregory would want to know that his own thoughts were being solicited, valued… that there was concern for his feelings, an understanding of his distress and what had caused it.  And a statement of both desire and willingness to try and rebuild bridges.

_Goal 2 – Reestablishment of communication.  Goal shall be achieved through direct invitation to partake in a discussion about events of the recent past to gain better understanding of each party’s standpoint and establish points of future negotiation._

_Goal 3 – Reestablishment of rapport.  Goal shall be achieved through_

Through… long before affections could be restored, trust and camaraderie would have to be returned to status quo.  This would take careful attention to detail and continuous study of Gregory’s responses to actions and language that passed between them.  The time requirement would be problematic, as Gregory would likely not desire to share an abundance of time at this point, but quality could, on occasion, remediate discrepancies in quantity.

_Goal 3 – Reestablishment of rapport.  Goal shall be achieved through sharing of pleasant, non-romantically focused activities to restore social relationship._

_Goal 4 – Reestablishment of romantic relationship.  Goal shall be achieved through_

Through… rebuilding a romance… he was not even entirely clear how their romance had begun in the first place.  When did the feelings sprout?  What helped them grow?  Did it begin with attraction?  For what portion did simple friendship account?  The sexual promise?  Were the actions conscious?  How much was subconscious?  This was where his careful planning would falter dramatically, for Mycroft Holmes had no firm idea of what made him care for Gregory Lestrade as he did or why Lestrade had developed a similar feeling.  Coordinating a friendship was one matter, organizing a romance was… he had nothing to place on the schematic.  He had _never_ felt this way about someone.  No one had ever scared him nor intrigued him as much as Gregory Lestrade and he could not enumerate a list of reasons for the cause.

_Goal 4 – Reestablishment of romantic relationship.  Goal shall be achieved through means to be determined at a later time._

__________

Mycroft experienced an acceptable level of pride at his organizational and planning efforts.  Establishing a firm timeline would not be feasible due to the unpredictable nature of the prime objective, namely Gregory Lestrade, but starting sooner rather than later would be a priority.  Goal 1… the unexpected meeting.  Location would be critical.  It could not appear to be contrived lest the Detective Inspector feel he was being pressured.  Or stalked.  They had often met at Lestrade’s office, however, that would not be a wise choice for a first re-meeting.  Gregory’s emotions might remain at a heightened state and Mycroft would not permit any incident that could cause embarrassment in the workplace.  That would be quite detrimental to his agenda and he would never put his Gregory into an compromised position with his team.  Well… he would not do it again.

The lucky happening-upon at a shop or cultural event would not suffice, either.  He had never crossed paths with the Detective Inspector during any purchasing excursion, nor at any evening at the theatre or opera and… shamefully had little information on hand about the locales Lestrade frequented during his own free time.  He _could_ amass that information and engineer and encounter, but it would feel false and Lestrade would respond poorly to that air of deceit.  That left one option.  An unhappy and potentially costly option.  However, Mycroft could think of no better alternative and, perhaps, it would provide the right blend of familiarity, comfort and support to promote a positive reaction.  With a mixture of optimism and dread, Mycroft took up his mobile and placed a call to a certain understanding army doctor.

__________

It took little effort to ensure a very puzzling case was entrusted to Lestrade’s capable hands, one that would necessitate his enlistment of Sherlock’s input and it was when that window of opportunity opened that Mycroft pounced.  With John forewarned that his peacekeeper services might required, Mycroft monitored the Detective Inspector’s actions and moved to act the moment it became clear that a visit to Sherlock and John’s flat was imminent.

Mycroft’s suit and tie were perfectly chosen to emphasize the lines of his body and enhance the color of his eyes.  He tried to convince himself that the only purpose for his overly-careful grooming and dressing was that capitalizing on Gregory’s physical attraction to him was a strategic move to facilitate their contact and, then, communication but… one corner of his mind refused to let himself deny the fact that he simply wanted to look good for his future partner.  And yes… that corner also refused to let him deny that he was beginning to think rather permanently about the Detective Inspector, which was unseemly, assumptive and… pleasant.

Mycroft timed his arrival at Sherlock and John’s flat to assure an acceptable amount of time to thoroughly irritate his brother, ensconce himself comfortably in the surroundings, address any whispered concerns John might wish to voice and allow the perfect amount of crease to develop in his trousers so that it was clear he had been securely in place before Lestrade arrived.  Just a simple visit with the new couple, one it was very expected that he would make often…

__________

      “And you don’t think it’s at all creepy that you spied on him to figure out when he’d be showing up so you could ambush him?”

      “I see it as prudent.”

      “I told you that Greg needs some time.”

      “Which I plan to give him, however, that time should not be spent thinking that I am anything but motivated to win his attentions again.  My options to initiate discourse are few, John.  Do you believe that Gregory would agree to speak with me if I were simply to call and ask to meet?”

      “No… you got me there.  Last time I talked him, he was still taking things hard and it could be a good while before he’d be willing to let you say your peace.  I’m not happy blindsiding a mate like this, but you still promise to keep things simple, right?  No big drama… we’ll have enough of that if Sherlock catches wind of things, as it is.”

      “I maintain that my purpose is only to assess Gregory’s current frame of mind and, if possible, make an offer of, shall we say, a quiet conversation about our standing and how, or if, it might be changed.”

      “So long as you stick to the plan.  No clinging to his trouser cuffs and begging for forgiveness as he drags you across the floor or any other over-the-top romantic comedy nonsense.”

      “I can place the probability of that scenario at less than zero percent.”

      “Is that possible?”

      “In this case, yes.”

      “Fair enough.  Oh, here we go… that’s Sherlock’s mobile… and that’s his ‘you’re so stupid you should be illegal’ growl… and here he comes.”

John jumped into his armchair and pretended to be casual and nonchalant as Sherlock stormed down the stairs.  Mycroft hid his appreciation of how nicely the doctor’s personality complemented his brother’s.  Perhaps that was another factor in establishing or repairing the emotional connection that ushers in romance.  Mycroft hoped that it was, because Lestrade’s personality _did_ complement his, easily as well as Sherlock’s was complemented by John’s.  His insinuation that Gregory was not good enough for him… the words should have boiled blisters onto his tongue.  By the black and white facts alone, John should never be placed in the same set as Sherlock, but they worked… and _thrived_.

      “What are you doing here, Mycroft?”

      “I believe the term is ‘slumming it.’ “

      “When you attempt humor, the entire universe moves one step closer to heat death.”

      “Then there is hope you shall finally acquire a degree of color to your pallor.”

      “Leave.”

      “Make me.”

Sherlock’s displeasure was very colorfully expressed and it served to entertain his elder brother until John put a damper on the spirited variety show.

      “Mycroft and I were just comparing notes about Martin and Arthur.  I’ll have you know that he agrees with me that we’ll have to go shopping for a wedding gift before you can say ‘Arthur in a puffy white dress.’”

      “Sky blue tuxedo, John… do not fall victim to flights of fancy.”

      “Oh, good call.  We’re getting them cookware, Sherlock.  I’ll be putting a little away every week so don’t go raiding my savings sock for cab fare.”

Sherlock was scrutinizing John and Mycroft knew his brother suspected some form of duplicity, but that he would not be able to place a finger on the source.  His frustration was a welcome side-benefit to Mycroft’s visit.

      “If you insist on dwelling on such a mundane topic, be aware that we will be presenting Arthur and Martin with rail passes to facilitate any urge they might have to travel.”

John cut Mycroft a look which was reciprocated in full.  John’s response to Sherlock’s utterly self-serving and completely wonderful idea was curtailed by the sound of a familiar set of footsteps climbing the stairs to their flat.  This second look was also reciprocated in full and Mycroft sent up a prayer to whomever watched over long-suffering older brothers that Sherlock did not catch a glimpse of either John or himself.

      “Sherlock!  Where are you?  I need to talk to you about this!”

Mycroft had positioned himself perfectly so that he could be visible the moment Lestrade crossed the threshold and, also, so that he could take in the full measure of the Detective Inspector’s reaction from the onset.  Every detail would be important to his own preparations and behaviors.  And what a wealth of detail Mycroft received.  In the split second following Lestrade’s eyes latching onto his seated form, Mycroft gained an almost unlimited amount of hope that his efforts, though they may be difficult and long-reaching, would be rewarded.  In that almost invisible moment of time Mycroft saw sheer delight light in the Detective Inspector’s eyes, layered over an obvious and strong attraction that every portion of his body language screamed into the room.  It was gone in less than a heartbeat, replaced by a cold and wretched anger, but it _had_ been there.  Something still smoldered and what smoldered could again be brought to a blaze.

      “So you’ve bothered me in order to stand gaping like a fish in my sitting room.  Bravo, Lestrade.  I didn’t think there was any further way you could waste my time but you have found one.  Now leave.  I have no interest in your ridiculous problem.  A cockroach could solve it.  Or Donovan.”

Lestrade tried to shake the mental turmoil out of his head, but was making little progress.  Best to retreat when you know the battle is already lost.

      “Sorry.  Didn’t know you had company.”

Spinning on his heel, the Detective Inspector moved to leave the flat, with a shocked Sherlock Holmes in his wake, but was halted by a booming “Stop!” and a gentler ‘Not a problem, Greg.  Have a seat.’  The urge to just push onwards was massive, but Lestrade started to feel a twist in his insides that he knew would intensify if he kept walking.  There was no way… no way in hell he was going to let the likes of Mycroft Holmes chase him away like a frightened rabbit.  Cursing that he’d let his emotional instinct take over, Lestrade turned back, face bright with a large and extremely false smile.

      “Ok, John.  Just didn’t want to break up a family get-together.”

Lestrade strolled over and dropped himself on the sofa, feeling sets of eyes on him every second.  One pair was concerned, one pair smug and satisfied, one pair… trying to set his brain on fire because Sherlock Holmes did not react well to being confused.

      “So, Greg… what did you bring us today?”

      “Serial poisoner is my take on it and…”

      “WRONG!  Your victims clean for a living!  Maids, housekeepers, janitorial staff.  Have you checked the products they use?  I’m sure you will find commonalities among brands.  It is a boring quality control issue at some manufacturing plant that’s the root of your issue.  Serial poisoner… did you stay up late thinking that one up for the headlines?”

Lestrade drew in a very deep breath and made sure to keep his eyes from looking anywhere near the very quiet Mycroft Holmes.  Just what he needed today, being shouted at for incompetence right in front of the man who believed him to be the most grossly incompetent person in London.

      “For your information, we _did_ check all of that.  And you’re off the mark.  No problem with any of the stuff they use.”

As Mycroft had made sure of before he nudged the case in Lestrade’s direction.

      “Then you missed something.  Your so-called experts couldn’t identify salt if they poured in on their tongue.”

      “Well I think they did a fine job and…”

      “Of course you would.  How could you possibly be capable of gauging their incompetence?  Your awe at their bone waving and tea-leaf reading really tells the tale.  One of stomach-churning stupidity.”

  Not today… any other day he could tolerate Sherlock’s infantile behavior and insults but not with Mycroft sitting there soaking up his humiliation like rays of sunshine.

      “Yeah, fine.  Thanks for that.  Guess I’ll be going.  See ya, John… Mr. Holmes.”

This time, Lestrade did not stop.  He didn’t even hear anything beyond the roar of blood in his ears.

__________

      “YOU IMBECILE!”

      “What… wait.  You’re angry.”

      “Brilliant deduction, little brother.  Simply dazzling.  John… advice?”

Mycroft wished he had an easily-accessible knife on his person so he could kill his brother and then himself.  This had _not_ gone to plan.  In hindsight, how idiotic he’d been inserting an uncontrollable and purely contrary variable such as Sherlock into his plans.

      “Go after him.  But… don’t push.”

Sherlock had not seen his brother run in… ever, so his slack-jawed astonishment could be forgiven.  Unfortunately, John had a list of other things for which forgiveness would be hard won.

      “What is _wrong_ with you?  I mean seriously… how was it necessary to go after Greg like that.”

      “ _You_ are also angry.”

      “Do you have a brain tumor or something?  Of course I am!  There was no cause to be that insulting.”

      “Both you and Mycroft are experiencing anger and whereas yours may, and I do emphasize the word _may_ , be warranted, his is most assuredly not.  Especially to that degree…  Tell me what is going on.”

      “You’re being an arse is what’s going on, I thought that was clear.  It’s bad enough you’re a brat to Mycroft and now you take on the only other person in London, besides me, who’s willing to put up with you!”

      “You won’t win this, John.  You are hiding something and your skills for deceit are deplorable.  And… you have made me quite curious.  You do realize the severity of the situation in which you now find yourself?”

      “If I tell you that you _really_ don’t want me to explain, would you just let it go for now?”

      “I can’t imagine you actually expect me to say yes.”

      “No… but it was worth a try.  Ok, but you’re going to want to sit down for this.”

__________

      “GREGORY!”

Lestrade whirled at the familiar but very unexpected voice and nearly fell backwards onto the sidewalk seeing Mycroft Holmes bolting out of the door and racing down the steps.

      “Sherlock is abominable at the best of times and when I am present, the miniscule measure of acceptable conduct he possesses shrivels to naught.  I apologize for his rudeness.”

Mycroft’s hair had lost its rigidly-enforced perfection and stray strands framed his face in a way that made Lestrade’s breath catch in his throat.  There was a touch of color, too, on Mycroft’s cheeks, a pure rose-pink that emphasized the shade of his lips.  And that gorgeous nose and lovely eyes…

      “It’s fine.  He’s just being a prick because he’s bored and wants to be coaxed into helping as part of the game.  I’m tired, that’s all, and not up for his nonsense.  Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

Turning to walk away should have been easy, but not when there was someone determined to walk next to you so _away_ was not a possibility.  Lestrade stopped and let Mycroft take the few extra steps so he was again in front of the Detective Inspector.

      “What do you want, Mr. Holmes?”

_You…_

      “I merely wanted to say hello…”

      “Ok.  Hello, Mr. Holmes, so…”

      “… _and_ see how you were doing.  I am concerned, Gregory and please do not be difficult and ask me why.”

Which _was_ what Lestrade was about to ask.

      “I won’t then.  And, as you can see, I’m fit as a fiddle.  Happy little scout.  Look, I have to get back…”

      “Do you wish to know how many indicators you are displaying that contradict your assessment of your condition?”

      “No.  No I don’t.  What do you want from me?  I’m trying to keep my head up, ok… would you be happier if I was dragging around and weepy?”

      “That would not please me in the least.  You may not believe the truth of it, but I have no desire to see you hurt.  Quite the opposite in fact.”

      “You’ll understand if I think you’re having me on about that.”

      “I will, but I would like the opportunity to change your mind on the subject, if you would permit it.”

      “I don’t think that’s a good idea.  It’s pretty clear how…”

      “ _That_ is a point of argument.  I would doubt that either of us is entirely ‘clear’ about things at the moment.  What I would ask is for the opportunity to rectify that unfortunate situation.”

Mycroft did not enjoy the darkness in Lestrade’s eyes, nor the fact that those eyes were having a hard time lifting their gaze from the ground.

      “Last night was the first where I’ve gotten more than three hours sleep since… it’s best I just let things go.”

_No!_

      “I will not diminish you by insinuating you do not know your own mind, however… please, Gregory, may we talk?  Can you spare me some time so that we might better understand each other?  Surely that cannot be too much to ask.”

      “Right now, I’m inclined to say that _anything_ you want is too much to ask.”

      “Perhaps you are right, but I know you, Gregory.  Whether or not you feel I deserve to be cut adrift without another word, you will still rankle from a perceived injustice that you did not at least listen to my cries as I floated away.”

      “Going all poetic on me, are you?”

      “If that works.  If not, I will try a more practical tactic.  However, I thought you might appreciate something with a bit of style.”

Lestrade absolutely did not want to smile, but he knew that at least a small hint of amusement showed on his face, because he received Mycroft’s small hint of amusement in return.

      “I expect nothing, Gregory.  Just a chance to talk.  I hope for more, but that is not my decision to make.”

      “Just talk.  Clear the air.  Nothing else.”

      “Exactly.  Our normal location?”

      “No!”

Mycroft wondered if his head was becoming misshapen from the number of times he had mentally kicked himself in recent days.  Too many memories at the café… and too public…

      “Perhaps, and I understand if you refuse, my club?  It is very private and extraordinarily quiet.”

It was a gamble.  The Diogenes was not exactly neutral territory, but Mycroft hoped Gregory would agree.  The sober atmosphere would reinforce the weight of their discussion, but the comfort would help to smooth any rough edges in the conversation.

      “Sherlock’s not a member, is he?”

      “Heavens no.  The moment the Diogenes Club accepts Sherlock as a member is the moment I call an air strike on the property and hang the loss of life and limb.  The fools would deserve it.  But… is that acceptable?”

Lestrade stood thinking, painfully aware of the man waiting next to him.  He had hoped never to have to have this talk.  No one enjoys the debriefing after a break-up and this one was going to hurt like a bastard.  But… Mycroft was right.  He’d carry a niggling itch in his head if he didn’t properly close the door on this fiasco and there was no way he was going to grant Mycroft even that bit of impact on his future.  And, at least he’d get a chance to see inside the hoity-toity club he’d heard John talk about…

      “Yeah… I can do that.  I’ll listen to what you have to say.”

      “And I hope you are willing to share with me also, Gregory.  That is half of the point of this endeavor.  I want to know your thoughts as strongly as I want you to know mine.  Shall we say tomorrow evening?  Perhaps at eight?”

Mycroft knew Lestrade had nothing planned so a refusal would mean he’d pushed a bit too hard and the man needed to step back for extra time or to feel more in control of the situation and both possibilities were easily dealt with.  Fortunately, Lestrade was a firm believer in taking on unpleasant tasks as quickly as possible.

      “That’s fine.  Now, I really do have to get back to work.”

      “I understand and I very much appreciate your time.”

Lestrade turned and this time, was not followed down the sidewalk.  Mycroft watched the figure, with shoulders not as straight as usual and head held not as high and felt his heart clench at what had been taken from his Detective Inspector.

      “Gregory!”

Lestrade stopped, but refused to turn around.  He had reached his limit.

      “I miss you.  I just wanted you to know.”

All Mycroft received as acknowledgement was a small nod, but… it was enough.

__________

      “My brother.”

      “Yes.”

      “And Lestrade.”

      “Yes.”

      “I have to go.”

      “No, Sherlock.  Leave them to it.”

      “You do not understand, John.  Mycroft does not keep people his life and Lestrade will end up one of the many he has dallied with and left behind when he grew bored.  I cannot allow that to happen.”

      “I don’t think you’re giving your brother enough credit.”

      “I don’t think you’re in a position to really know.”

John counted to ten.  And then twenty.

      “I admit I only know what I’ve been told, but I think they’d be good together.  Bit of yin and yang…”

      “Mycroft will consume Lestrade whole and spit out the bones.  I may be late.”

Sherlock gently moved John aside and left the flat with no further word.  John debated calling Mycroft to give warning but decided against it.  If there was anything to what Sherlock said, then maybe a bit of brotherly confrontation would be a good thing.  Instead, he called the other member of the unhappy couple.

      “What took you so long, mate.”

      “Thought I’d give you time to catch your breath, you lousy copper.  How’d it go?  You should have seen Mycroft race out of here like his feet were on fire.”

      “I caught the end of the performance.  And it went… this is insane, John.  We never even went on a proper date and the devil is tearing me up.”

      “Love will do that to you.”

      “Don’t you dare speak to me and use four-letter words.”

      “I’m still waiting, no matter how much you stall.”

      “I agreed to meet him for a chat, ok?  Just to tie up loose ends, make sure I get my say.”

      “That’s good… important to get closure.  I’m sure he’ll have a lot to say, too.”

      “No doubt, but that’s his problem.  I mean, I’ll be civil.  Let the man have his say, but then it’s wipe my hands clean and move on to greener pastures.”

      “What if you _like_ what he has to say?  You did say you would think about things.”

      “Really, John?  Whose side are you on?”

      “Nobody’s.  I just don’t want you to cut off your nose to spite your face.”

      “Some might say it’d be an improvement.”

      “And they’d be right.  Tell the truth… you gonna be ok, Greg?  When’s the big meeting.”

      “Tomorrow night.  Gives me time to get my affairs in order in case it’s all a trap and I become a missing person statistic.”

      “Nah, he’ll know you’ll tell me, so unless he’s planning on getting rid of me, too, you’re safe.  And since that’d leave him alone with Sherlock, you know _that_ isn’t happening.”

      “You’ve got a point.  Look, I actually have to do something useful for the citizens of London today, so I’ll have to talk to you later, ok?”

      “Sure.  Let me know how things go, alright?”

      “I will.  Thanks, John.”

      “Anytime, Greg.”

__________

Mycroft wondered if Sherlock made it obvious he had broken into his home on purpose or if he simply didn’t care to concern himself by covering the signs of his intrusion.  Regardless, it was no surprise to find his brother draped across the sofa in his study, reading one Mycroft’s precious first-editions.

      “Stop for cake?”

      “Your predictability is tedious, Sherlock.  You need, as they say, new moves.”

      “The same can be said for you, seducing someone entirely incapable of comprehending how shallow and manipulative you are.  Do not have any contact with Lestrade again; he will not come to harm because of your lack of ability to engage in a successful relationship, romantic or otherwise.”

Mycroft knew that John would have been maneuvered into revealing his current circumstances to his brother, but he had expected Sherlock’s opposition to be entirely self-centered.  Interesting that it was not…

      “That is rather the pot calling the kettle black, little brother.”

      “I _have_ a relationship.  In fact… I have several at this point.”

      “And there was a time that it was impossible for you to forge anything resembling an accord with _anyone_.  At least not in a fashion that brought them any pleasure or benefit.”

      “I cannot argue that fact; however, it is no longer the case.”

      “Yet you believe it is for me.”

Sherlock hurled himself upwards from the sofa and began pacing, while Mycroft took a seat behind his desk.

      “You have not been… no one has… you have had no reason to change.”

The point was valid.  Mycroft’s assignations never ended so poorly that there remained bad blood between the participants.  Simply silly affairs that satisfied while they lasted and were easily forgotten when they finished.  There was no inciting event to prompt any change in his behavior and Mycroft had never seen a reason to do so on his own.  It was all very convenient, as things stood, and Mycroft Holmes did very much appreciate convenience.  But Gregory was another matter.  Gregory was not convenient, nor was he easy to forget.  He was not disposable or easily ignored.  He was… what Mycroft had been waiting for all along.

      “To be blunt, Sherlock, you have no idea if I have or have not experienced a reason to change, so you are being quite presumptuous in your opinions.  And, a tidbit of information on which to chew… sometimes all that is required is the presence of the right person to put one’s life in perspective and change happens on its own.  I expect you have _some_ understanding of that, at least.”

      “Do not equate your tawdry affair with my love for John!”

      “I wondered if I would ever hear you say that… I am proud of you, Sherlock and very, very happy for you both.  And no, I am not being facetious.”

Mycroft adored seeing Sherlock’s face bright with emotion, it was a sight that never failed to deepen his own love for the boy standing in front of him.

      “Be that as it may, you will not sully Lestrade with your game-playing.  He… deserves better than to be your next ex-lover.”

      “If I have my way, the prefix ‘ex-‘ will _never_ be applied to dear Gregory.  For anything.”

      “Do not hurt him.  He… he cannot be allowed to suffer.”

      “You worry about him.  That is admirable, Sherlock.  It is what friends do and you are doing it well.  But I have no intention of causing him further pain.  If I am permitted, I will do everything in my power to ensure that he is never harmed, by anyone, ever again.”

Sherlock studied his brother as closely as his brother studied him and Mycroft, at least, was satisfied with his conclusions.

      “I do not agree with this in the slightest and I will _not_ relax my vigilance, Mycroft.  If I observe a single incidence of action detrimental to his person, I _will_ take action.”

      “That is fair.  And very honorable of you.  Though there is no action you could take that would not be as if a housefly was bothering me while I read, so do not get above yourself.  Now, if you will excuse me, I do have matters that require my attention. And I am sure John would be happier if you were home paying attention to his _matters_.”

      “NEVER speak to me in innuendo.”

      “Ah… another weapon in my arsenal.”

And the sound of his front door slamming was nearly music to Mycroft’s ears.  Sherlock _protecting_ someone.  Worried for another’s welfare.  This was truly cause to celebrate…  

__________

      “MYCROFT!  Oh this is wonderful!  I was just thinking about you because I was going to watch a film and I was remembering the last film night I had in London and that’s the only one you were there for and it was extra-special because of that, well and because then I got to go on a case and…”

      “Arthur dear boy… it is very good to hear your _eager_ voice.  And I have a proposition for you.  How would you like to watch a film with me now?”

      “Watch a film with you?  I would love to!  Oh… that would be brilliant!  But I can’t.  I mean… you’re in London and I’m in Fitton and I don’t think I could get there for quite awhile since I don’t think there’s a train to London tonight and…”

      “What if I said I would be willing to work a little of my magic so we could enjoy a film together without having to travel?”

      “I would say you are the most brilliant man in the world.”

      “You are too kind.  Now, get yourself comfortable in front of your television.”

      “This is so amazing.  And, you know… I think I might have a little magic in me, too, because I just popped myself a big popcorn snack, so I am completely ready for a film…  Ok… in my room and my telly’s on.”

      “Oh, I think it would not be amiss to say that you possess your own streak of magic.  Now, are you watching the screen?”

      “Yes.  My eyes are not moving.”

      “Ok, here we go…”

      “Oh… oh my… it’s… I LOVE THE WIZARD OF OZ!  This is the greatest film ever!  And you’re watching it, too?”

      “Most assuredly, and we can share our little film experience now, can’t we?  If you put your phone on speaker, you can even dance to the songs.”

      “Mycroft… I have to say this… I cannot believe how lucky I am that I know you.  Really… I am the luckiest person in the whole solar system.”

Mycroft settled back in the wonderfully comfortable chair in his private entertainment room and thought how badly Arthur had it wrong.

      “Again, you are far too kind… and _I_ am the lucky one for knowing _you_.  Ah, there went Toto out of the basket.”

      “Oh no!  That always scares me… he’s such a wee doggy and that’s quite the fall.  And then there’s that horrid woman…”

      “Don’t worry, my boy… they’ll get their happy ending.”


	12. A Gentleman's Agreement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued and sincere thanks for all of the wonderful comments and kudos. And regrets for poor editing of this chapter - long days and head colds are the bane of spelling, grammar and punctuation...

Of course.  Of bloody course… he has something that’s, well maybe important wasn’t the right word, he had _something_ to do in an hour and there he stands looking exactly like a man who hasn’t been to bed and it still wearing the same clothes as the day before.  Which, of course, he was.  They were short-staffed due to some bug making its way through the population that didn’t think that giving the police a bypass was a necessary thing to do.  So, Lestrade had worked all night on other people’s cases, then got a lead on his own investigation that they had been pursuing all day with barely enough time to take a private piss, let alone have a decent meal.

Right now, the stresses from all directions were too high and Lestrade wanted nothing more than to walk away, keep walking and never look back at London a day in the remainder of his wandering life.  He had some time coming and maybe that would help.  Take a few days off and put new scenery in front of his eyes.  See fresh faces… Yeah, that was something to think about.  But not now.  Now, it was all he could think about to get his people squared away so that he could take a little recess and talk with Mycroft.  Who would undoubtedly, notice every bit of his bedraggled appearance and wonder anew why he had ever given Lestrade a second look.  Maybe that will make all of this easier… who’d want to fight for the likes of him?

It took time to secure his departure from his team, get a cab and make it across London, leaving none to stop for a fresh shirt or a shave.  Lestrade did the best he could to neaten his clothes and run his fingers through his slightly-greasy hair before begging entrance into a world he had no place being.

__________

Mycroft never had what one might term a ‘day off,’ but that was balanced by the fact that he could often arrange his time during the day to his own satisfaction.  For instance, it was not difficult to take care of items of importance early in the morning, push one late meeting to lunch the following day and spend the remainder of his time spying on… observing… the Detective Inspector and it made his heart bleed.  So few toiled in their chosen professions with such dedication… and yes, the inappropriateness of this statement in light of his earlier accusations was not lost on him.  The man had worked all night to compensate for absent personnel, then had taken on a full day’s schedule that, as usual, ran beyond the normal limits of a ‘full day.’  Mycroft watched as the man toiled without break, something he was exceedingly used to in his own work but, watching Lestrade endure such a trial was difficult.  He desperately wanted to send the man some lunch, orchestrate a reason to give him a little time to sit and catch his breath, but Gregory would not appreciate the efforts at this juncture.  One day… one day he would be able to take care of his Detective Inspector in so many little ways…

Mycroft arrived at his club at 7:00 pm sharp and set about preparing the environment to receive his guest, expending some mental energy to remembering fondly the last guest he had received.  How completely unintimidated young Arthur had been, something even members of old and wealthy families were unable to accomplish.  Actually, Mycroft had to wonder if anyone besides Arthur had ever _enjoyed_ being in the Diogenes…  Gregory would surely not.  Whereas the quiet and solitude created the perfect location for Mycroft to throw off the burdens of his day, Gregory would not likely find the lack of life acceptable.  Or... perhaps he _would_ enjoy a silent and relaxing place in which to read.  The man had a very agreeable selection of books in his flat at any given time.

When the small alert light brightened to announce Gregory’s arrival, Mycroft quickly checked the discretely-placed monitor to catch an advance glimpse.  And it was… perhaps the Diogenes was a poor choice.  Gregory was vainly attempting to make himself, to his own perceptions, presentable for the establishment and the strongly hesitant cast to his features spoke of a class-based shame and of feeling severely out of place… Gregory would not understand that Mycroft saw a wholly different man.  One exhausted after a long day of honest and honorable work, valuable work... and positively striking in spite of, or perhaps _because_ of it.  Mycroft did not permit himself to indulge in fantasy or daydreams, but he relaxed his restrictions this one time and across his mental eye flashed a comfortable vision of being now at his home and welcoming a tired and hungry Gregory Lestrade with a warm kiss, a hot bath a fine meal and a long night spent in conversation and other intimate activities.

But he would not ever see that most desirable vision if Gregory began, himself, to believe Mycroft’s stupidity that he was not worthy enough to be in his presence.  A Holmes did not panic, so the confusion and indecision that swept through this particular one had to be a leftover effect of some poorly filed mental data from his day’s management initiatives.  When he saw Lestrade being escorted into the atrium of the club, he _did_ readily and ardently admit panic, which luckily proved to be a useful motivator for his mind.  Quickly tossing off his jacket, Mycroft untucked his shirt and rolled up his sleeves, offering a silent apology to his wonderful tailor.  Next was his tie, loosened but not removed and finally, both hands running through his hair, loosening the stranglehold of his epoxy-like gel.  Such a memory… Gregory’s sheer shock and _lust_ seeing him disheveled and flustered from his little jaunt along Baker Street.

He had just enough time to pour himself a drink and affect a casual pose when there was a quiet knock on the door and his dear Gregory was ushered into the room  And there was that intoxicating surge of pure _want_ in the Detective Inspector’s eyes.  But also more… a longing that had nothing to do with sex… a simple happiness with the person his eyes were showing him...  Again, it was gone in a flash, but Mycroft made himself a silent promise.  Even in his own home, he maintained an air of formality that many, perhaps even most, would consider aberrant.  A measure of insurance for his highly unpredictable hours and activities.  But now… he would make accommodations to his habits if he could see that beautiful brightness in Gregory’s eyes every night.

      “Ah, good evening Gregory.  I do hope you will forgive my rather untidy appearance… the day has been quite long.”

And with those words, some of the tension eased from Lestrade’s form.

      “Yeah… I can agree with that.  Nice place you got here.  Solid bones, good place for a bit of quiet.”

And he would have it anytime he wanted it.  Mycroft would be delighted to share his little sanctum with a willing and scintillating partner.

      “It is, isn’t it?  I am very glad you appreciate what it can offer.  May I further offer you a seat?  I assure you, they are quite comfortable.”

      “Getting off the feet would be nice, thanks.  So… what exactly do you do here?”

      “Would you be shocked if I said I hide from the world?”

      “I’d be envious, actually.”

      “Such a falsehood… there’s not a hint of green about you.”

An actual laugh… now it was Mycroft’s turn to begin relaxing.

      “Who are you and what have you done with the real Mycroft Holmes?”

      “Oh, he is somewhere about, though I do not remember at this moment exactly where I left him.  He was cryogenically frozen and cells are harvested periodically for our cloning efforts.”

And how wonderful to hear even more laughter from the Detective Inspector.  Mycroft never considered himself a being with much sense of humor, but he was unfailingly able to inspire laughter in at least one person when the mood struck…

      “I always liked that about you, Mycroft… you could always give me a chuckle, even when the times were rough.”

On the positive, Gregory used his name without any hesitation.  On the negative side, he was speaking in past tense.

      “A service I am very happy to perform at any time in the future, be it smooth or rough.”

Some of the amusement bled out of Lestrade’s face and he settled back more fully in his chair, keeping his body poised, however, for a rapid departure if it became necessary.

      “I saw what you did there, you prat.  Nice little segue way into the great big topic of conversation.”

      “Perhaps that _was_ a bit clumsy, however… it is a topic that I am very anxious to address, Gregory.  It’s importance to me cannot be overstated.”

Mycroft took his own seat, careful that his own body language radiated openness, sincerity and calm.

      “Can I start things off by saying I’m having a bloody hard time believing that?”

One thing that Mycroft had always admired about the Detective Inspector was his forthrightness.

      “In this case, striking at the heart of the matter is an appropriate way to begin.  I would appreciate honesty and candor from you… and clarity on exactly why you are of such a mind. Before you take offense, I know the physical circumstances, but I would also know your perceptions and feelings, if possible.  I am not sufficiently arrogant to believe that I know the details or significance of your beliefs.”

Lestrade’s tension increased a noticeable amount, but it was to be expected.  Opening one’s soul for inspection was a daunting task…

      “Fair enough…”

Mycroft watched Lestrade mentally compose himself and take in a few steadying breaths.

      “We’ve known each other a long time, Mycroft.  And I think we got to _know_ each other a bit too, if you get my meaning.  I started to see when you were talking up a smokescreen instead of being real.  And I could tell when you _were_ being real, even if you weren’t trying to let it show.  I liked you, you bastard.  Enjoyed your company and wished I could have a bit more of it because the time was fun and easy.  We seemed to fit, if that makes sense.  No matter where we were or what we were doing… it was good.  And yeah, I won’t lie and say I wasn’t attracted to you right off the mark.  I remember the first time I met you, eyebrow arched and upper lip stiff as a board…  I wanted to tear that perfect suit off of your body and have you right there in the station house.  Wife wouldn’t have been happy about that, but she wasn’t happy about anything…  Always thought nothing would ever come of it and that would have been ok, because I liked what we already had enough to be happy with that.  Then… I don’t know why things started to change but they did and I was… high as a kite!  Like a kid who’s been hoping for a bike at Christmas and the shiniest, best bicycle in the world shows up under the tree.  I guess I thought maybe you’d got a bike, too.  Guess I was wrong.  I get that I probably came on too strong but… it’s not often I think I’ve got a chance at the big prize and I guess I got too eager and wanted it too much…”

It took several more steadying breaths before Lestrade could continue and Mycroft remained utterly silent while the man re-composed himself.  Not that he had any other choice for the words in his ears were so powerful, they were pressing like a ton weight.  _He_ was the big prize?  To be wanted to that degree… for who he was _inside_ the suit… it was a heady thing to know, deep down, that if he hadn’t a penny to his name or the power at this fingertips… there was someone who valued what he was as a _person_.  Valued and coveted…  Not at all something Mycroft was familiar with, but something that deepened his already bottomless regret.

      “But I thought you wanted it, too, there at the end.  Even if you pulled away one minute, you’d be running back up the next and… maybe I thought you just weren’t sure if I was someone that was actually worth your time.  I finally decided that yeah, it looked like I was and then… well, it all went to hell didn’t it?”

 _There at the end_ … no.  Mycroft was not at all prepared for nor willing to allow there to have been an end.  He had not yet begun to fight.

      “I still can’t believe the things you said, Mycroft.  Felt like taking a cannonball in the chest.  Fine you don’t want to be with me but…”

Lestrade had to stop again, this time to wrestle down the rancid mixture of anger, frustration, pain and betrayal that was creeping up his throat.

      “… why let me know _that_ way?  Look, I figured out that you see me as your little pet that’s expected to jump every time you say so.  Take your orders, just like you said.  And no talking back, either.  I thought… I thought when I agreed to help you with things it was just that – an agreement.  Not that you saw it as me obeying the person tugging at my collar.  Was that why… it upset you, didn’t it that I kissed you first.  Acted above my station… servant taking liberties…  If you’d have done it you’d have seen it as your right, but lowly old me… yeah, makes sense now why you called me a whore.  Always called the pregnant maid the whore, didn’t they?  Pushed me back down where you think I belong…”

Mycroft was out of his chair, vainly attempting to convince himself that he wasn’t actually trying to hide behind it.  He had in no manner anticipated this turn to the conversation but how could he _not_ have anticipated it!  Was there anyone in the world who so befuddled his thinking as Gregory Lestrade?  Arthur Shappey, notwithstanding… Mycroft poured himself another drink, ignoring the half-finished one still sitting beside his chair.  His dear Gregory had been silent and Mycroft was thankful for that fact as he was not sure he was ready for another barrage of guilt, no matter how well-deserved.  He had thought himself to be very well braced for whatever might come but… the greatest fool is the one that fool’s himself.

      “You mind if I have one of those?”

Even in the social pleasantries he was failing this man.

      “Of course, it was remiss of me not to offer.”

Although his own emotions were laying on him like a layer of hot grease, Lestrade could not miss the tremor in Mycroft’s voice.  He had no idea though, how he should feel about it.  One large glass of what smelled like good whisky appeared in front of his face as if by magic and Lestrade carefully accepted it, very mindful to avoid any skin contact.

      “Thanks.  Well, you wanted to know why I’ve not got a lot of faith in what you have to say and now you do.  I feel completely betrayed and there’s not much chance for trust after that.”

      “Yes… yes, quite. Well… I asked for candor, didn’t I?”

      “Hurts like a son of a bitch, doesn’t it?”

      “An apt description.  I have no concern for my own state, Gregory, but I would offer you the only balm I can have for your own pain.  Truth.  And that is not something I have freely offered anyone, even my brother.”

Mycroft would not dwell on the shine in Gregory’s eyes, nor the worry and mistrust that lay behind it.  It was, after all, all his due.

      “The words I said to you were said in anger.  No, that does not do the feeling justice.  My life is an insular one, Gregory.  It is easier and more efficient that way.  Sherlock… you know my feelings for my brother.  He alone has been the exception to the sterility of my life, until young Arthur.  My cousin Martin, as a child, temporarily stood under my metaphorical umbrella, but he was always more tied to Sherlock… despite the pain that caused him...  but he and I parted ways and that association, though it is mending will always be, to some degree, at arm’s length.  But with Arthur… it is simply not possible to keep him at arm’s length for he flings himself towards those he claims as friends and family and holds on tightly when he latches on.  Sherlock permits me nothing; Arthur joyfully accepts everything.  And for that he will forever hold a treasured place in my life.  In my mind he was threatened, vulnerable, abandoned… my reaction was more intense than I would have predicted.”

This time, it was Mycroft who had to draw together his thoughts.

      “There is a side to me, Gregory, that I would prefer not exist.  It is ugly and brutish and single-minded and completely devoid of reason.  Only for the most extreme reasons has this side come to light and… it is not something I can easily control.”

      “I know you’ve got a temper, Mycroft.”

      “I assure you that you have no proper awareness about that which I am referring, but…”

      “I got that dealer and his bird out of London.  What was left of them, that is.  So yeah… I have some idea of how far out of your head you can get.”

Mycroft almost giggled that his first thought was that someone was going to have to clean up the mess of broken glass and whisky covering the floor by his feet.  His second thought was that he must have suffered some form of stroke because he surely had not heard what his mind seemed to think he had.

      “Caught you by surprise?  Little feather in my cap, then.  You were the one who was Sherlock’s contact for the doctors, but you can’t be on the job long without getting to know the emergency personnel in the city.  They’d call me when Sherlock had a problem, even if you didn’t.  I got just enough information out of the lad before he passed out for the week to track down who’d used him as a punching bag.  Even all of that blood couldn’t completely mask the scent of your cologne.  I’d always thought it was fantastic on you… Anyway, I got a car, dropped them off at an A&E a few hours north and told them that if they wanted to keep living they’d forget about ever setting foot in the city again.  Far as I know, they never have.  Had to go back for the Mum and Dad, so that was one fucking long day…”

Gregory downed his drink in one long swallow and rolled the empty glass between his palms.

      “So yeah, I’m familiar with your temper.”

Mycroft stared at the Detective Inspector and wondered if he would ever be able to fully know the man.  He somehow knew he never would and that _excited_ him wildly.

      “You never said anything.”

      “No real point, was there?  You did your bit and I did mine and the important thing is that Sherlock was safe and still doesn’t have much memory about the whole business.  I think he buried all of it so deeply in that ridiculous ‘mind palace’ of his, he couldn’t find it even if he wanted to.”

Still staring and still as mesmerized by the person with whom he was conversing.  Gregory was perfect… perhaps not by the literal definition, but there could be no one as perfect for a busy, overworked and… lonely… man.  Perfect as a partner to help shoulder the weight of his brother’s bedlam and… he knew his cologne… such a trivial and foolish thing, but Gregory noticed the small details.  And if there was one person who understood the importance of details, it was Mycroft Holmes.

      “We make a good team.  Is that what you are implying, Gregory?”

      “We did.  Maybe we still do when it comes to Sherlock.  And the rest of the pack.”

      “And is that the extent?  That you know the source of my uncharacteristic behavior is extremely unexpected, but very gladdening.  We can build from that, yes?  It is a fortuitous…”

      “Want to know why I don’t think we can ever make it work?”

Mycroft had suffered many injuries in the service of the Crown, but had, to date, never experienced an airplane crash.  He expected it was similar to what he felt at this moment.  No… no no no no no… they were making progress… Gregory understood…

      “I know a couple of things.  One, you knew what to say to hurt me the most.  And you’ll always know that… you’ll always be able to tear me apart any time you want to.   Two, the things you said had to have been swimming around in your head already for them to flood out of your mouth like that.  And three… you aren’t sorry.  I waited, Mycroft… I waited for a call or even a goddam text that said you were sorry and nothing came.  I get a big bunch of flowers and not one ‘forgive me.’  And you still haven’t said it.  That was my last bit of hope… that I’d walk in here and you’d say you were sorry and stupid me for getting my hopes up.”

He’d been wrong.  This was what a plane crash felt like.  He _had_ said he was sorry.  Hadn’t he?  Mycroft ran through the mental videos of his past days growing more and more frantic… nothing.  Not one apology offered to the man he had so horribly wronged.

      “Gregory, surely you know that I am…”

      “Save it, Mycroft.  You’ve had days to say two little words – I’m sorry.  And you didn’t do it.  You don’t miss things like that so I have to conclude you’re _not_ sorry.  Maybe you’re sorry that I found out what you really thought about me, but you’re _not_ sorry for what you think or what you did.  Sometimes things get said that people don’t mean, that’s a fact of life, but I need someone who is honestly sorry when they’ve been an arse.  And doesn’t think I’m a dumb dog happy to sit at his feet.”

Lestrade looked around and found no place to put his glass, so decided it was a sign that his time in the Diogenes was at an end.  A few steps from his chair and his glass was sitting with the many glittering decanters filled with liquors he could never afford.  Mycroft was right, he didn’t belong here.  It had been a laughable dream…

      “Gregory, wait!”

Mycroft pushed himself out of his stupor and took hold of the man moving quickly towards the door.  Took hold and _held_.

      “Please, don’t leave.”

Lestrade’s body did not lose its stiffness, but he didn’t push Mycroft away.

      “There’s no reason… there’s nothing for me here.”

      “Nothing?  _Everything_ , Gregory… everything you want, everything _we_ want is here.”

      “Maybe that was true once, but I can’t put any faith in it now, Mycroft.  I’m sorry, too.  I’d believed… well, I guess that doesn’t matter anymore.”

This time he did try to break from Mycroft’s arms, but the other man was not ready to let him go.

      “I have nothing to offer you except my word that  whatever I put you through was not intentional and that I _am_ sorry.  No apology I can proffer will ever be sufficient to assuage my guilt for my treatment of you, but I give it nonetheless.  Do not forsake me, Gregory.  I have… I have just found you.  I _cannot_ lose you.”

Mycroft held Lestrade’s eyes and closed the distance between them so that his final words were spoken into the breath that his Gregory breathed in.

      “Mycroft, I can’t…”

The smallest bit closer and Mycroft tasted the salt and wind and coffee and whisky and fatigue and strength that flavored his Gregory’s mouth.  And felt the heat of the body he pressed close to his own.

      “You want this.”

Said softly against the skin of a smooth and salty neck.  His man was delicious…

      “Yes… more than anything…”

Mycroft lips curved into a seductive grin as he trailed his lips across Lestrade’s skin.

      “But I can’t trust it…”

And now he was standing at arm’s length from the body he wanted in his arms and every cell of his being screamed at the separation.

      “You’d be scandalized if you knew the things I’ve done to myself fantasizing about you, Mycroft Holmes.  But I can’t make that a reality.  Not with you… not right now…”

The tiniest of opportunities…

      “ _Not right now_ … that means it may be possible at some point.  Is that true?”

      “I… I don’t want to answer that.”

      “I will not give you the choice.”

Mycroft moved forward again, remembering keenly when it was Gregory chasing _him_.

      “You said that we _fit_ , if my memory serves.  That is a rare event, my dear Detective Inspector.  I have not experienced it in my lifetime, yet I knew your words were true as soon as they reached my ears.  You would not let something so exceptional go unrealized would you?  My dear, dear Gregory…”

Once again, Mycroft’s mouth savored the taste of Lestrade’s lips and sank into the joy of feeling strong hands trace the muscles of his back.

      “Do not walk away from this, Gregory.  We both want it too badly…”

Lestrade had vowed he would never let Mycroft Holmes twist him around his finger ever again, but holding that vow against the fire rising inside him was not proving easy.  Holding Mycroft in his arms was far too sweet.  But… he was not yet able to forgive, let alone forget…

      “Mycroft… you asked me for a postponement... now it’s my turn.  It wouldn’t have hurt so much if I hadn’t _wanted_ so much… I need time to let that cool…”

_Intolerable!_

      “And… right now I’m feeling pretty rough about myself.  Can’t trust that you’re not making love to me just to keep me in your game.  I need to know I’m still someone _worth_ wanting… I need some time.  Some space.  Maybe some… maybe other things to get my head sorted out.”

There was no universe in which Mycroft would not win Gregory Lestrade back to his side.  And if he had to loosen his grip for a moment, he would do so.  But loosen did not mean remove…

      “But, this postponement is as temporary as the one I was proposing, correct?  I acknowledge that you require time to heal and so that I may demonstrate most fully the depth of my regret for what I said and have done to you, but I will not simply let you vanish into the night.”

Mycroft returned his lips to Lestrade’s own and made sure the Detective Inspector had no illusions about the sincerity of his words.  Gently gliding his tongue down and across his Gregory’s strong jawline, Mycroft drank in the shudder that ran through the other man’s body, which intensified as Mycroft’s tongue traveled freely down his neck, followed by a retracing of the slick and shiny trail by a row of gentle kisses that returned them to each other’s mouths.  How strongly Mycroft wanted to mark the coarse and tempting skin on his future lover’s body.  To let a red rose bloom at the base of his neck or across a powerful shoulder.  That would have to wait, but would be the first order of business the first night they lay together in either of their beds… when the blackness of this time was fading quickly into memory.

      “You know I can’t give you a promise…”

      “Can you promise that you want me?  That you wish a life for yourself that finds you comfortable in an embrace such as this when you return home at night.”

      “Please, Mycroft… don’t…”

      “Just say yes, Gregory… you have never had a issue with the truth.”

Mycroft drew away and let the heat of his touch fade.  He didn’t really need the words; knowing the response of his partner’s body was promise enough.  He had done everything he could to lose this chance at having something beautiful in his life… he would do everything he could to bring it back.

      “Of course I want this, you bastard!  But everyone wants things that aren’t good for them sometimes.  That’s what I have to know… absolutely and no questions asked… I have to know that I’m not doing something incredibly stupid that’s going to tear out my heart again.”

There was still time…Mycroft still had time and opportunity to make this right…

      “All of that I understand and will not in any way impede.  I ask though, if you can find it within yourself, to remain in your life in some capacity.  Our meetings for tea, perhaps a shared luncheon or casual dinner, a stroll in the evening… I will not pressure you for more.  Just allow me to spend some collegial time in your company so I may continue to demonstrate my commitment to the goal we both wish to see realized.  Is that too much to ask, Gregory?  I simply cannot let go of you without a fight.”

Mycroft had yet to release Lestrade’s body and no desire to do so now.  How seamlessly they matched the curves and grooves of each other’s form… but he could not appear overly possessive at this time, though his mind had already laid claim to the man cradled in his arms.  Time, space and experiences… heal and rebuild… it was little to ask, really, but necessary for one who had been so cruelly savaged.

      “I can… We can do that.  Try that, at least.  I’m telling you up front, though, that I plan on living my life with no thought to any future relationship with you.  I’m still going out drinking with John and if I can pull an agreeable way to spend the rest of the night, I’m going to do it.  We’re not exclusive and I won’t expect it of you either.  If we end up together… if I can feel ok with that then… wonderful.  But if I find something else in the meantime that works and makes me happy… that’ll be wonderful, too.”

Let his other half be content with his convictions.  Mycroft would ensure that Gregory would find his happiness and it would be where he had _wanted_ it to be before this tragedy occurred.

      “I agree to your terms.  They are quite fair, considering the circumstances.  I will not pressure you or act beyond the boundaries you set, but know always where my desires lie.”

And another long, slow kiss consumed what seemed to be hours of time.  Lestrade hated it because it set his emotions against his reason and reason was having a hard time holding the line.  If he simply said the word, he had no doubt the night would end between crisp sheets, in a tangle of limbs that he’d enjoyed in many a night’s dream.  But it would be a tainted pleasure and he wanted any relationship with Mycoft to be free of old slights and issues.  He let his fingers run one last time across the lines of the Mycroft’s face and pulled away, standing far enough away to make clear his intention to put an end to any further advances.

      “It’s a plan.  Now… it’s been a bitch of a day and I need a shower and a few hours sleep.  I… I hate to say it, but I’m glad I came.  See me out?”

Mycroft would much rather see the man into his waiting car and back to his home for further _discussion_ , but he would not renege on his agreement.  The was far too much to lose…

      “Of course.  And… perhaps my club can serve as a location of one of our purely platonic rendezvous.  I know you value time for good books…”

Mycroft’s face held a hopeful look that Lestrade had never seen.  How could he refuse?

      “Yeah, we can do that.  Sometime soon, even.”

      “Anytime Gregory… anytime in the world for you.”


	13. Consulting an Advisor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wonderful comments make this experience truly enjoyable - thank you all for you kind thoughts!

      “I will… good lord, Arthur, I am perfectly capable… fine.  Hello, Arthur Shappey’s phone.”

      “Martin?”

      “Mycroft.  Bit late for you to call.  Something wrong?”

      “No, not at all.  I simply had a free moment and could think of no better way to use the time than check on my dear cousin and his enamored.”

      “You called Arthur’s phone, so I think you have that the wrong way around.”

Mycroft wondered if he would ever regain the full use of his faculties.  He felt pieces falling away from his very orderly and scrupulously maintained mind, landing at his feet and being blown away by the breeze.  Just a snapshot of his interactions with Gregory demonstrated that his higher-order thinking functions had become severely compromised.

      “And you snare me in a trap of language.  I do admit to preferentially making contact with young Arthur, but take that not as a slight.  It is simply that in one communication, I can learn the status of his welfare, yours, Arthur’s dog, Arthur’s mother, your co-pilot, your aircraft, every individual who has any attachment to your airline, as well as the local news or gossip, his most recent culinary experiments, the plot summaries of the entrainment programs that currently rank as his favorites, a bracing assessment of the status of certain musical performers and, of course, how the confection industry worldwide is meeting or failing to meet his requirements.  It is simply a matter of efficiency.”

Hearing his cousin laugh so openly and freely was a balm for Mycroft’s heavy soul.  The boy had lived too long without reason for laughter in his life.

      “Ok, you’re right.  I can’t be upset when you can get the Arthur Shappey News Channel with the push of a button.  He’ll be available in a few minutes.  Right now he’s giving Snoopadoop her bath.  Carolyn’s out for the night and that was part of our payment for free use of Shappey manor.  Not that it was much of a payment, Arthur adores giving that dog a bath.  Toys and musical entertainment are involved.”

      “I have no doubt.  While we wait for mission’s end, do inform me as to your own news, Martin.  Arthur does deliver an epic narrative of your days’ activities; however, there is little that is more valuable that first-hand information.”

      “Lots of words to ask how I’m doing.  You and Sherlock… sometimes I wonder if you get paid by the syllable.  I’m doing ok, though.  Had a couple of bad days, but Arthur’s there to keep them from going too dark, even though I wish he never had to worry about me anymore.  I don’t know if that will ever be possible and I feel like a heel putting that burden in his life.”

      “He is exceedingly willing to take on that burden, dear cousin.  He sees it as being useful and helpful and little matters as much to Arthur as being of benefit to those about whom he cares.  It may pain him in the short-term, but it fulfills him in the long-term.”

      “That’s what he says, though not as succinctly.  Actually, he’s about the one person in the universe that can out-word you lot.”

      “And you cherish it.”

      “God help me, but I do.  It’s actually getting to where I get anxious when I’m alone in my flat and it’s quiet.  Luckily, Douglas loves the sound of his own voice, so the cockpit never gets too quiet or I think I’d go mad.”

      “Ah, Mr. Richardson.  You may wish to remind your co-pilot that the scent of certain cheeses quite easily permeate what might be considered air-tight plastic wrap and that customs agents are not unfamiliar with the odor of illegally-transported Stilton.  I would hate to have Mrs. Knapp-Shappey inconvenienced by having to secure the release of one of her employees from incarceration in an only marginally-allied country.”

Martin thought that having Douglas sit stewing in a squalid foreign prison actually sounded quite pleasant.  For him, that is.

      “I guess thanks are owed for that.  But not from me, so onto more stimulating areas of conversation.  You might want to step out of the country for awhile because Arthur’s planning a party and it’s already getting out of hand.  I had to stop him from trying to see if he could rent one of those snow-making machines they have at ski resorts so we can have a winter wonderland theme.”

      “That would not be difficult to arrange.  I will have someone liaison with Arthur to finalize the arrangements.”

      “If you do I will find you and dye your hair purple.  You spoil him enough already.  Really Mycroft… what did it take to enable him to have access to any film known to man?  I’ve spent the day with a Disney marathon that any kid in England would kill their parents for.”

      “It was a minor thing.  A small luxury for someone who is very worthy of it.”

      “Yeah, well… maybe I’d like to be able to give him a few luxuries, too.  But I can’t, so don’t I look like the consolation prize in comparison.”

      “I can assure you, Martin that Arthur views you as the most valuable thing in his life and that will not change based on any little gift I might bestow.  However, if makes you happy, I shall take a more hands-off approach to…”

      “No.  It’s good you’re hands-on with him.  I have no idea why, but Arthur adores you and I would never deny him anything that makes him happy.  Just don’t go off buying him ponies or his own van like they have on Scooby Doo, which he’s trying to convince me to paint _my_ van to look like.  And, when it comes time to start looking for the little house he keeps going on about… you’re not buying it and handing it over, understand?  Maybe a spot of help getting a loan or negotiating a good interest rate, but it’s ours to pay for, got it?”

The Bank of Holmes provides very good interest rates for its clients, currently at 0.0% and they handle all aspects of property acquisition so that the homebuyer need not be bothered with irrelevant details such as knowing the _actual_ purchase price of their new residence.

      “Of course, Martin.  I fully applaud your desire for independence and will endeavor to stay safely off of your toes.”

      “Good, because I… OW!  Save your spoons for your pots and leave my head alone.  No, you can’t kiss it and make it better… I _am_ being nice!  Hey!  Fine… I’m going…”

      “Hi Mycroft!  Skip’s gets a little silly sometimes and he’s been wearing a grumpy face ever since he lost the cheese tray to Douglas because he couldn’t name the eight reindeer that fly with Rudolph at Christmas.  How are you doing?  Did you have a fun day?  How’s Greg?  You know, I was thinking, maybe the next time we watch a film over the phone he can watch, too.  There’s lots of films about policemen out there that he might like.  That would be brilliant!  You did fix things with him didn’t you because we can’t watch films and have fun if things aren’t fixed.”

And this was why Mycroft placed a call to Arthur Shappey.  Even if he had wanted to hide from his troubles, Arthur would drag him back into the light for interrogation.

      “I cannot guarantee Gregory’s time, Arthur, especially since he is not particularly willing to share that with me at the moment.”

How Mycroft was able to hear Arthur’s disapproval in the complete silence would remain a mystery.

      “What did you do?  Or was it something you didn’t do?  You sound guilty, Mycroft, so I know there’s something that you’ve done or not done and I think… that’s why you called, isn’t it?  You need my skills in understanding people, which makes sense because not everyone’s taken a course for that and this situation demands very educated advice.  Well, I’m ready.  Snoopadoop is clean and dry, Skip’s toddled off to read one of the books you bought him, so I have all night to talk.  And… start.”

Mycroft cared little about Martin’s opinion on the subject.  If Arthur wanted a pony it would arrive fully appointed and with its own stable.  That would _not_ be spoiling.  That would be payment for services rendered.

      “How talented you are in interpreting vocal inflections, my boy.  I despair of ever plumbing the depths of your abilities.”

      “Nice try, Mycroft.  I have no idea what you’re saying, but not one of those words seems to be answering my question so I suspect you’re trying to put me off course.  So, what happened with Greg?”

Exactly the question Mycroft had been asking since he escorted the Detective Inspector out of the Diogenes and into a cab.  _Much_ had happened and Mycroft still had not processed all of the details into a coherent picture.  He had achieved both more and less than he had hoped… this was where young Arthur would be helpful.  He had an uncanny ability to find simplicity in the most complex scenarios.  And… he was a _safe_ ear.  Something almost unique in Mycroft’s life.

      “Arthur… how detrimental is it to personal relations if a specific, verbal apology is not offered for a misstep in behavior?”

      “Meaning?”

      “If one does not physically offer the words ‘I’m sorry,’ how would that be interpreted by the injured party?”

      “Oh Mycroft… please don’t tell me you haven’t said you’re sorry.  Or made a card that you put ‘I’m So Sorry!’ across the front.  Not even a very happy bunch of balloons or flowers with “I’m Sorry!  Hugs and Kisses, Mycroft’ on the card?  That’s… well there’s no other way to say it but that’s terrible.”

      “Ah… I see.  Then it is not sufficient to allow other words or actions to act in substitute.”

      “There’s three things that you have to say outright – thank you, I’m sorry and I love you.  You have to say them or write them or sing them just like that and nothing else will work.  And you had a lot to be sorry for, Mycroft, so you should have said it a lot, too.  How mad is Greg?”

      “He is… it is a major point of problem between us at the moment.”

      “Well, it should be.  If you were here I’d put you over my knee for a lesson you wouldn’t forget.  At least I never forgot a lesson that earned me Mum’s hand across my bum.  Never one time again have I tried to make my own slipperly slide ride in the hallway with a few bottles of olive oil and the floor mat from her car.  Luckily, the seats on GERTI are pretty soft or the next few flights would have been very uncomfortable, let me tell you.  And I said I was sorry a lot of times while I was cleaning up and Mum forgave me and that was the end of that.”

So he had erred _grievously_.  But he had not intended such a thing!  Why could he not think properly when it came to Greogory?  Mycroft Holmes did not err to this degree and yet… he had made more mistakes in the past few days than he had in all the years of his life.

      “So if you haven’t really said you’re sorry then… I’m going to call Greg tomorrow and see if I can cheer him up.  He must feel awful!”

      “I would concur.  We spent the evening in discussion and he is of the opinion that my lack of formal apology is evidence that I stand by my assertions, regardless of my state of mind at the time.”

      “If that means he believes the horrible things you said, then I’d say he’s sort of got a right.  You’ve got to do something, Mycroft.  I mean… you _do_ care about him don’t you?  Not that I’m being nosy, but I’m hoping that we’ll be three couples now and not just two and you.”

      “I do, Arthur.  I care quite deeply for Gregory and that is not something I have felt for anyone else.”

      “Then you need to act like it.  And that means saying ‘I’m sorry’ plain and simple and as many times as it takes.  Now, what else?  And there is an ‘else’ isn’t there?  Come on, Mycroft… you might as well tell me because I can sit here all night on the phone and wait until you do.”

All Mycroft had to do was say goodnight and end the call, but no power on Earth could impel him to further disappoint Arthur.

      “Besides the responsibility of having to disabuse Gregory of the idea that I view him as beneath my station?  He has asked that we remove ourselves from the formality of being in a relationship.”

      “What’s that mean?”

      “I believe the phrase is ‘be friends.’ “

      “Oh… that’s not good.”

      “Isn’t it?”

      “No.  Well, maybe not, but normally… no.  Did he say he wants to see other people?”

      “Unfortunately, yes.”

      “Oh… that’s _very_ not good.  I’d say that if your chances of being with Greg were on a big clock and when the hands hit midnight a magic spell would be cast so that you could never be together ever again… well, it’d be about 11:58 right now.”

      “Ah.  Would it help push back the clock hands if I told you that he and I engaged in some rather amorous displays of affection during our last encounter?”

      “I sometimes wonder if you and Mr. Sherlock don’t actually want people to understand you.”

      “Gregory allowed me to kiss him.  Multiple times.”

      “Oh… that’s a bit different.   Not totally different because having the hots for someone doesn’t necessarily mean that you want to be with them forever.  I mean, you _should_ have the hots for someone one you want to spend your life with, but people also have the hots for all sorts that they don’t want to have a house and garden with like I do with Skip.  They can even be fake people like elves.  Though I’m not convinced they’re actually fake, no matter what Skip or Mr. Sherlock say.  I’m not talking about elves that make toys, either, but those very nice-looking elves in the films.  They do awfully look like regular people, but prettier and…”

      “He _did_ express a sincere interest in furthering our relationship, but only after he assuaged his… he needs to believe that my desire for him is not purely possessive, but rather concomitant upon… he wants be sure we are ‘good’ for him before he commits.”

      “Oh… I can understand that.  Skip started to doubt that we were right for each other with the mess with Mr. Sherlock.  He… it is rather similar isn’t it?  He thought I cared for him and then thought I didn’t.  But I jumped in right away to make him see he was daft.  You didn’t do that, so now you have to work harder, because bad things get well… badder… the longer they sit around and you let this sit for quite a bit.  It’s like my Creamy Chicken Pasta with Cream and Chicken.  You can almost see it getting badder by the minute once you let it sit out on the counter for awhile.  Like a few days.  Are you even going to see each other anymore?  It’s going to be very hard to make things up to Greg if you aren’t allowed to spend time with him.  I mean, there’s skywriting… Hey!  I can ask Mum if we can use GERTI to do some skywriting.  That would be brilliant!”

      “Gregory has agreed to engage in casual pleasantries.  He is not averse to spending time in my company.”

      “That’s good!  If he really wanted to cut you off, he wouldn’t let you see him at all.   So you can show him what a wonderful person you are and do lots of fun things!  That’s the most important part, you know… having lots of fun with the person you care for.  You need to make it clear that you’re the person he can have the most fun with out of everyone.  Is he… is Greg _really_ going to date other people?”

      “He was very clear that the possibility existed.”

      “Ok…give me a minute because I’m trying to think how I’d feel and what I’d do if Skip had decided to see other people while we were having our… misunderstanding.  Oh… I’d feel a bit sick.  And Skip kissing someone but me… no… I don’t want to think about that.  Oh Mycroft!  I bet you’re beside yourself right now!  I never had to lay awake thinking about Skip kissing other people, but I know it would be the worst thing I could ever imagine.  And I’m really trying and nope… I can’t imagine anything worse than that. Ok… ok.  We have to do something.  We absolutely and positively have to do something.  What are you going to do?”

Quarantine Gregory Lestrade in a beautiful country home with every need met and every wish granted… and away from any other arms that might try to embrace him…

      “That is my dilemma.  I find myself as discontent as you with the thought of Gregory taking comfort in the arms of another but he is of the opinion that he needs some freedom in the area of intimacy.  According to John, Gregory requires reassurance that he has _it_ , which seems to be something associated with virility and desirability.”

      “It is!  Doesn’t matter who you are or how old or anything… everyone wants _it_.  Skips got lots, but he doesn’t believe it, so I have to try and let him know it’s true by telling him all the time.  You know, pointing out when he looks especially handsome, which is all the time, and when he’s being especially strong like at his job when he’s lifting something really heavy.  I make sure to point out how strong he is and how nice his muscles are and I’ve sort of always done that but now I get a little snog sometimes which is amazingly brilliant and that makes me feel like I’ve got a little _it_ myself, which is even more amazingly brilliant.  And… I think that if people had realized how much _it_ Skip had in the past, he would feel better about himself now.  I mean, yeah, it’s not pleasant to think about… other people boosting up Skip’s _it_ , but it’s also not pleasant to think about how unhappy Skip was for so long.  I don’t understand why Greg doesn’t think he’s got a lot of _it_ because he does, but maybe he’s like Skip and just can’t see how brilliant he is.  And then, of course there’s you, who’s got a TON of _it_ , what with  well… everything… so maybe he feels… yeah, I can see him feeling a little _it-less_ if he was making a comparison, which would actually be very, very stupid but people can be pretty stupid sometimes about things like that.”

      “And you honestly think _I_ have _it_?”

      “Oh Yes!  You’re one of the _ittiest_ people I know!”

Now that was interesting.  Mycroft had never thought of himself in those terms but… he had never positioned himself to converse honestly with persons who saw past the pomp and circumstance.  And he couldn’t deny that Arthur’s words were welcome.  _Very_ welcome for the older version of a lonely, overweight child whose friends cared dearly about his money and for him, not at all.  Mycroft’s crisis of confidence, and the scars it left, came early but Gregory’s… his was happening late in life for a variety of reasons, and Mycroft willingly took ownership of his share.  Arthur was correct… it was not pleasant to think about Gregory regaining his esteem through the adoration of others but, it did make sense, especially in light of the fact that any compliments Mycroft bestowed would be suspect.  Not that he had really offered any, had he?  Again, he reviewed the tapes of his memory and found nothing.  He had told Gregory he wanted him, would work to have him… but given no firm reason why.  Nothing, not a single piece of flattery to bolster the man’s ego or elucidate why Mycroft found him so uniquely appealing.  Not at all required for the length and level of commitment of his usual associations, but critical… absolutely critical for what he wanted with his Detective Inspector.  And again, he had failed.  Perhaps, he was _not_ good for Gregory Lestrade.  Perhaps… perhaps, he was not good for anyone.

      “You’re thinking.”

No, he had not been engaging in that particular activity for some time.

      “I do apologize, Arthur.  I was simply reviewing your argument and…”

      “It started to go this way and that and you ended up in a big mud puddle, didn’t you?”

      “In the proverbial sense, that would be correct.”

      “Well, don’t do that.  You and Mr. Sherlock’s brains are brilliant, but you can end up in the _biggest_ mud puddles.  Not that mud puddles are really all that bad if you’re looking to have a little fun after a rain, but these aren’t that type of mud puddle.  These are the kind that you get your tires stuck in when you remember that your forgot your wallet at home and try to turn around on a very narrow road and you can’t stay on the hard part and then you’ve got part of your car off the road and part of the car on the road and the man with the delivery van gets cross at you and then there are the sheep…”

      “I shall endeavor to keep my thoughts out of the so-called mud puddles as much as is possible.  Perhaps you can assist me with that endeavor by offering your perspective on my current standing with Gregory and offering advice on how to proceed.  And feel free to be creative, I am not entirely devoid of means to help implement your initiative.”

Never had Mycroft laid his life so completely in the hands of Fate.

      “Really!  Oh, this is better than a big platter of chips!  Ok… well, it seems that Gregory is still interested, which is very important, but he’s gotten a little spooked since you were so mean to him and didn’t bother to say you were sorry.  So, that’s the first thing you have to remedy.  You have to do something really big or really romantic so that he knows you’re really serious about being sorry.  I’ll pull some ideas together on that.  Then… you have to make him feel like he’s got a whole barrel full of _it_.  And you have to do it better than anyone else he tries to get to show him his _it_.  I’ll pull some ideas together for that, too.  And you’ve got to make him… make him know, really know, that you’re right for each other.  That means showing him that he’s right for you and you’re right for him.   Both of those things, not one or the other.  Did he say how long you had to wait until you could see him or call him or text him?”

      “No… we set nothing in place for a timeline.”

      “Brilliant!  Then make your first jump really fast.  Not a high one, though.  Just a little hop.  Do something sweet and nice and maybe even a little silly, just to say you’re thinking about him.  And keep a watch out for if he starts to feel blue or gets a cold or anything, because that’s a great time to do something especially wonderful so he sees how much you care about him and want him to be happy and well.  I thought Skip was getting the snuffles the other morning and I went right out and got him medicine and tissues and made a big pot of soup and got him a special bowl with huge happy elephants so he could have a smile while eating his soup and I brought over extra blankets and loaded my phone up with videos and even though he didn’t wind up getting sick, we got to spend the day in his flat eating soup, Skip let me share his elephant bowl!, watching films and staying warm under a mountain of blankets.  So you have to do that too, if you get the chance.  Do you think Greg likes elephants?”

Cement his contrition in Gregory’s mind, establish firmly that Gregory is breathtakingly desirable, be attentive to his needs, demonstrate the reasons for his attraction to and admiration for his partner and offer reasons why Gregory should… at least tolerate him.  He could slot each of those objectives into his current list of goals quite nicely.

      “And make sure you’re always thinking about him when you do something.  I mean, Greg’s not the kind of person you’d hire the circus to come and do a show for, unlike someone like me who’d think that was brilliant.  You’ve got to do things that work for him.  That’ll also show that you _know_ what he would like, which is very important.”

In that Arthur was decidedly correct.  Gregory was keenly aware of what he perceived as the class imbalance between them and overly-grand gestures would not serve to impress.  They would only serve to insult and Mycroft would rather rest his head on a chopping block than offer Gregory further insult.

      “Those seem very sound points of action, Arthur.  I very much appreciate your help.”

      “It’s no problem!  Really, none at all.  Because I want you and Greg to work out.  Greg is simply brilliant and so are you and brilliant people should be together.  Now, I expect you to call me again tomorrow and tell me what you’re doing.  I’ll send along some ideas and I learned how to use this program on my computer to draw pictures, so I’ll add some diagrams, too.  I expect you like diagrams because that’s what I see in the papers when they want something to look very serious and important.”

      “Diagrams are an excellent idea.  Especially colorful ones.”

      “Brilliant!  Because I really like to make things colorful.  Hey… no… in a minute… you can wait a minute, Skip…”

      “Arthur, is your attention being sought by another party?”

      “If you mean is Skip being a silly monkey and won’t spoon out ice cream for himself, then I guess I have to say yes.”

Mycroft knew that if he switched on the surveillance feeds he had in the Shappey home he would see his cousin with a large grin on his face, exceeded only by Arthur’s own blazing smile.  One would have their arms around the other and the rest of the night would be stretching out in front of them full of potential and promise.  He’d taken up enough of their time together.  It had been blessedly helpful, but now he should make his goodbyes and leave the night to those young and in love.

      “Then let me bid you farewell so that you can satisfy his dairy-based desires.  Let me guess… something chocolate?”

      “How’d you know?  I’ve got some chocolate chocolate chip, chocolate chip cookie dough, chocolate brownie, chocolate mint and chocolate with big fat cherries in it.”

      “You know, dear boy… they manufacture machines that the home chef can use to prepare their own frozen desserts.  Perhaps you would find use for one?”

      “Oh my… Skip, get me a chair… because I need to sit down very quickly… oh Mycroft that is BRILLIANT!  I could do so much… it would be… where’s my chair, Skip?  Yes!  I do need it!... are you… would you… you’re not teasing me, are you Mycroft?”

Such a tiny thing to bring so much joy… would he have had this years ago…

      “Not at all.  I shall ensure an appropriate model and recipe books, just for basic reference mind you, are delivered to your home post haste.  I very much look forward to hearing the details of your original creations.”

      “There _will_ be details!  I’ll keep notes in my notebook.  I don’t think Mr. Sherlock will mind if I mix case notes with my ice cream recipes.”

      “Not at all.  And if I may tell you a secret?  Both Sherlock and Martin enjoy a nice bit of chocolate but could always be swayed in _any_ direction with the offer of caramel and nuts.  I expect you can create wondrous flavors with that bit of information.”

      “I can!  My brain is already working on it.  I’ll have twenty ideas in my notebook before I can even try them!  Thanks so much, Mycroft!  You always know how to make things brilliant!”

Except when it came to Gregory.

      “Except, of course, when it comes to Greg, but that’s ok, because it’s different when you fancy someone.  Then it’s hard to think well and do the best thing.  But between us, we’ll make sure that sometime very soon we’ll all get to sit around and have a big family dinner with ice cream and… oh, it’s such a beautiful dream that someone should paint a picture of it.”

      “Sometimes… when we are very lucky… dreams do come true, my dear Arthur.”

      “That’s absolutely the case, my dear Mycroft.  Especially when you work at them.”

__________

      “Before you ask, Arthur, I will not have a ménage a trois with you and Mycroft.”

      “What does that mean?”

      “Turning our couple into a triple.”

      “Silly Skipper, Mycroft’s got his own boyfriend.  Well, not really just yet, but we’re working on it.”

Martin rocked back on his heels and stared at Arthur.

      “Mycroft.  Some poor bastard got tricked into a relationship with _him_?”

      “What is _wrong_ with you and Mr. Sherlock?  Mycroft is simply amazing and he deserves someone to make him happy.  He’s just having a difficult time getting things right, which I understand since setting things up properly to be boyfriends is hard work.  And tricky work.  And I don’t think Mycroft has much practice with that, just like you and Mr. Sherlock.”

      “Can you not put me and Sherlock in the same sentence quite so often?”

      “I won’t when it doesn’t make sense.”

      “And what were you swooning over a moment ago?”

      “Oh!  Mycroft’s going to send over a machine to make ice cream.  Can you believe that?  I can work up my own flavors and it is going to be the best thing ever.”

At least it wasn’t a pony.

      “Arthur… you know… you do know I’d get you things like that if I could, right?  That I’d do anything, get anything… I’d make sure you had anything you ever wanted if I was able…”

Arthur gazed fondly at the man he loved with every part of his being and drew him forward into a warm hug.

      “I know that, Skip.  See this hug I’m giving you?  Mycroft isn’t here to give me a hug.  Or play cards with me or wash Snoopadoop with me or anything like that.  So he sends me an ice-cream machine instead or lets me watch my films.  He doesn’t have anything else _to_ do, Skip so he does what he can.  I think that’s part of his problem right now… he doesn’t know what to do and so he’s doing what he can and it’s not working because it’s not the right thing to do, but he doesn’t know it’s not the right thing and it makes for a very big mess.”

      “Well, Mycroft’s mess isn’t my concern, but good for you offering your sage advice.”

      “I have to, Skip.  And more than that I want to.  He’s family.”

Martin had to laugh at how he’d gone from little family to lots of family in the blink of an eye.  And some of that family deserved whatever small reward he could give.

      “You know, Arthur.  I was talking to Herc and he has this friend with a little flat in Paris that’s empty most of the time.  I was looking at the wall chart and we’ve got a few days we’re not booked coming up in a week or so.  My rent’s paid for the month and I’ve got a few quid in the bank.  We couldn’t do anything more than sightsee, but it would be a chance to get away and have some time just to ourselves and…”

As much as Martin hated being interrupted, he minded it less, actually not at all, when Arthur did it with one of his soul-searing kisses.

      “Me and you in Paris!  That would be BRILLIANT!  Oh Skip… you’re the most amazing man in the whole wide world and I lrvd dzhu so much!”

      “Clearing your throat?”

      “Ummm… might have a bit of dust gone down the wrong way.”

      “Are you sure of that, Arthur?”

It was very rare that Arthur found himself being hypocritical.  Three things… he told Mycroft there were three things that had to be said outright and plainly… and now he felt, oh he was his own brand of chicken britches wasn’t he…

      “No, I may not be sure of that.”

      “Would you like to try again?”

      “Yes, I guess so.  Here goes…”

Martin could not help but notice how extremely nervous Arthur had become and slid his arms more tightly around Arthur’s waist in reassurance.

      “Skip, you’re the most amazing man in the whole wide world and I love you so much.  Is that… is that ok?”

All his life, Martin had hoped for someone who would look at him and say those three little words.  How stupid he had been… because there was no someone in the world who could make those words have meaning besides his precious Arthur.  What in heaven had he done to deserve all of the joy Arthur Shappey had brought into his life?

      “Arthur, that is more than ok.  And that’s because I think _you’re_ the most amazing man in the world and I love you, too.”

Arthur drew Martin back to him and buried his head against Martin’s neck.  Skip loved him… he’d hoped, imagined and maybe even prayed a little and now… Skip loved him.  No matter what happened in their lives, that one thing was all Arthur would ever need to be happier than the happiest person that ever lived.  Ever.

      “You alright, love?”

Arthur reluctantly pulled away from Martin’s body and wiped his eyes before answering.

      “Yes… can I say it again?”

      “As often as you want to.”

      “I love you, Skip.”

      “I love you too, Arthur.”

      “As often as I want?”

      “As often and at any time that you want.”

      “That has me a bit dizzy.”

      “Don’t worry, love, I won’t let you fall.  I will never, ever let you fall.  Now, time for ice cream?”

      “Can we eat it out of the same bowl?”

      “The elephant bowl?”

      “Oh Skip, you read my mind.”


	14. To Speak From the Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many wonderful bits of encouragement... I treasure each and every one...

Mycroft wondered if Arthur had taken any rest during the night because the sheer quantity of thoughts, tactics, diagrams and information he received in the morning made the plans for D-Day look sparse.  Over breakfast he skimmed the various emails, texts, photographs, collection of links and interactive maps and began to at least glean a pattern.  For his collegial activities…

_Go out and hunt birds.  Not with a gun of course because that is horrible and why would anyone want to hurt a pretty little bird?  But with a camera or a pair of those binoculars like the ones that Douglas keeps for when we’re at a hotel and he wants to watch the young ladies at the beach if we can see it from our window.  And did you know they have books that tell you what they are?  You can figure out what any butterfly or bird or frog is from the picture.  That could be a lot of fun and get you outside in the fresh air.  And that’s another opportunity for a picnic, which is on my list somewhere, too._

_Go shopping!  Not real shopping, like for underpants or washing powder, though that can actually be fun, too, but shopping for exciting things like hats and kites and books and sweets and games and other things you can spend all day looking at and playing with even if you don’t come home with one thing in your shopping bag._

_Can you cook?  If not I can teach you, but Skip and I like cooking together sometimes, especially after we’ve already eaten since if it comes out a little woggly, we don’t get left hungry.  Or make something like a model plane, which Skip loves doing, or, I watched this program where a man made his own little helicopter from a kit.  And not a model helicopter, but a real one you could take a trip in.  That would be brilliant!  You and Greg could build a mini-copter and go flying around.  And you could visit us!  I’m going to put a star on this one._

_DANCING!_

_Since you’ve got your teams, you could do a big scavenger hunt and you and Greg would be paired up and I bed you’d win.  I can make an enormous list of things to look for.  Even if you didn’t win you could have a wonderful time and there’s always a party afterwards and that would be a little bonus since you could go to the party together._

_I didn’t see any bicycles at your house but you could go on a long ride and maybe find a nice lake and go swimming and there could be a nice little farm that makes cheese or grows apples and you could walk around and learn all about that and can you juggle?  Because you could juggle the apples and entertain Greg, which I’m sure he’d very much appreciate.  Or the cheese, but only a hard cheese otherwise you could get a bit messy.  But, you could always go swimming again…_

Mycroft decided to skip over the options that involved robots or required some form of time-space manipulation, but he felt he had the gist of the Arthur’s suggestions.

_Oh, and don’t be afraid to do things you like, even if you think Greg would feel a little strange.  You know, some of the posh things you like to do, which I’m sure are smashing and tons of fun.  That’s completely ok, as long as it’s not the only things you do.  But if you’re going to be boyfriends, you should both get to spend time doing things you like, so it’s fair.  Just don’t buy him a nice dress like in that film with the lady with the big smile.  That might make him feel bad if you didn’t think he had any clothes good enough, so think of something clever._

That was comforting.  Whereas Mycroft was resolved to do what was required to win back his Gregory, he was very uneasy about having to completely change his habits.  He had failed so spectacularly in this endeavor to date, that he was quite worried that the failure would continue to escalate unless some return to his comfort zone could be had.  Luckily, he possessed a portfolio of season tickets and standing reservations/invitations that he could include some areas of his forte into their time together and he could easily explain it away as being a matter of no special effort.  Just one friend asking another to make use of a spare ticket or join him at a table that was already waiting and set.

But Arthur’s suggestions… they were very intriguing.  Playful, could be taken as either platonic or romantic, offered many opportunities for conversation and learning new details about each other, required little to no outlay of money but could occupy very large blocks of time…  And Arthur had another very elaborate assembly of methods of apology…

_Get a big flashy sign and put it outside his house or flat.  Does he live on a boat?  If so, that might be a little hard, but you could put the sign in a little raft and float it alongside._

_You can train a doggy band to bark out a song about being sorry.  I came up with a playlist for you to pick something.  Or you could just send him the playlist._

_Charades!_

_Write him a poem.  Although I would not say this out loud, so it’s lucky I’m writing it, but I’m sure there’s plenty of ‘I’m sorry’ poems out there and you could just copy one if you couldn’t think of one yourself.  Use that posh paper you have and it would be extra brilliant!  And put drawings with it.  Skip really loved my drawing for my letter when I was trying to get him back.  A letter!  You could do that, too.  It takes hours to write a letter, but believe me, it’s worth every one…_

If he discounted the ideas that involved interpretive dance or fireworks, only because he was planning a very extensive fireworks show for the eventual Crieff-Shappey wedding, there were some workable possibilities on Arthur’s long list.  He had achieved Goals 1 and 2 on his own strategic map and now Goal 3 was in his sights.  If he could lay a suitable apology at Gregory’s feet, he was certain that they would move smoothly into the ‘friends’ area that, though the possibility existed for a stalling of affections at that unsatisfactory stage, was necessary to place Goal 4 securely on the horizon.  Dear Arthur had done a very admirable job igniting the fires of imagination in Mycroft’s mind, so there would be no common-brand ice cream maker for _his_ court advisor.  No… something a chef would weep to have in their kitchen.  Engraved.  And ingredients would be a necessity.  He wondered if a single case of Toblerones would suffice to start or should he err on the side of caution and include two.

__________

Lestrade stared at the mountain of paper that apparently reproduced itself at will when he turned his head.  While contemplating the mechanism by which paper and file folders were able to have sex, he nearly missed the envelope that was dropped onto to the top of the stack by a quick and trembling hand.  The rank and file were giving him a wide berth after he’d done his impression of an idiot on PCP and reduced his office to a debris field.

The envelope wasn’t normal internal correspondence, because the paper was a rich, creamy white as opposed to the cheap, stark white of the crap they were issued.  And when he lifted it, the weight was substantial and shrieked indulgence and luxury.  No return address or name, but he didn’t really need one, did he?  He bid a silent good morning to Mycroft Holmes and delicately pried open the flap.  Inside, instead of the usual salutation and opening one expected in a letter, he received a set of instructions.

_The pages of this are in order and that order should not be upset in any way.  On completion of one page, you may move to the second and, so on, in linear fashion._

Figures that Mycroft Holmes would make his first tactical strike as bossy and demanding as possible.  And that his handwriting would be exquisite.

__________

**Page 1**

It has never advantaged me to open myself in any way to those around me.  In truth, doing so has been unfailingly painful and, on occasions, exceedingly dangerous.  In my choice of work, it is essential that I hold myself apart from others, else my judgment be compromised and in my personal life, such has also been the case.  I do not permit relationships with others.  I sate my body’s needs when the mood strikes, taking lovers from a pool of nearly indistinguishable candidates and when I have quenched that particular fire, we have amicably parted company, silently agreeing to be no more to each other than a nod in passing at a charitable function.  I have seen no reason to ever change this pattern and, after hurts and slights of youth, have failed to even give the idea thought.

Then, one day, when everything around me was harsh and bleak, into my life walks a man who is very distinguishable from the rest.  Someone who shatters the very rigid walls I hold around my person and strides past the destruction wearing an unimaginably beautiful smile to complement his bright and wicked eyes.  And it frightened me.  That one person could destroy what I had spent a lifetime building and maintaining unnerved me completely.  And you did it so easily, so naturally, that it was as if you had been placed here for just that purpose.  But that could not be.  There was no one placed on the Earth for me, no one who would see not what I was, but who I was, and find that appealing.  Not someone so handsome, sensual, humorous, intelligent and vivacious.  That could not be for me.

But I began to hope, as you hoped.  To believe that the man who made all else fade into the background could be mine.  That I could be warm, as I have only been cold.  You know what they call me, Gregory, and I have never thought the term to be unwarranted.  But perhaps, there are exceptions.  Perhaps there are some whom I can allow to see a little of what lies beneath the hard and unforgiving frost.  And perhaps, there is one whom I desire to see everything, as if the cold did not exist at all.

__________

**Page 2**

What would you picture when a name such as mine appears in a file that crosses your desk?  What images would it conjure in your mind?  So many names fail to do that, fail to prompt a person to reflect on the nature of the so-named.  Often, associations are already entrenched, for good or ill, for right or wrong.  However, others give you pause, perhaps allow you a whimsical respite where you picture the person in their posh and pompous majesty or their shabby and simple insignificance.  I always see it, the hesitation when my name is matched with my person, when the individual I confront is busily comparing their preconceptions with the evidence of their eyes and ears.  But I saw no hesitation with you.  It was as if the image in your mind already matched what your eyes beheld and there was no dissonance.  Was that the case?  Did you look at me and see someone who should have an archaic and arrogant name?  Or did you see someone else?  A secret I have long kept is that I both cherish and despise my name.  True, it is unique.  When it is mentioned by others in conversation, there is never the need to add a surname to complete the identification.  But it is also stigmatizing.  The child with the odd name.  And it must be an odd child that has an odd name, correct?  It is no different when one reaches their majority.  And maybe it is just.  Perhaps there is no discord between my odd little name and my odd little self.

But the same can be said for you.  Your name immediately calls to mind strength, responsibility, solidity, a rugged nature, even a bit of roguishness and that is you, dear Gregory.  There is no other in whom I have ever given such trust and held in such regard.  I allowed you the most intimate access to the most precious person in my life and I did so gladly.  And I would as gladly grant you that access to someone far less important – myself.  Actually, I would beg you to accept it, tainted and flawed a gift that it would be, for there is no other in whose hands I would so contentedly place my body and soul for I know they would be held safe.  Your name so perfectly matches who you are Gregory and rolls so easily off my tongue that I find myself using it as often as I can, even if it is for no other reason than to summon memories to play with in my mind.  I hope that you are able look beyond the eccentricities of mine and see someone who is more than archaic and arrogant.  Or at least someone who desperately wishes to be more in this life.

__________

**Page 3**

In my circles, sharing a drink is fraught with convoluted layers of meaning.  It is not an activity to be enjoyed for one must always be alert and on guard.  Every word must be screened before it is spoken, every sentence analyzed as it is heard, every motion of a hand or twitch of an eye evaluated for the message it is sending.  In truth, it can be quite exhausting.  But not with you.  You agreed to sit in my pretentious, chauffeured vehicle and share a moment of relaxing time and I cannot express properly how delightful was the experience.  I frequent that memory often as it is one of my favorites of you.  We had nothing specific about which to speak, yet there was no time the words lapsed and we fell into that uncomfortable silence that marks a pairing that will not find success.  It is extraordinarily rare that I am able to simply converse for the pleasure of the act and the enjoyment I took from that time still clings to me and brightens my days.  You were scintillating; and I felt privileged to have you there with me.  I often long for someone with whom I can speak freely.  With whom I can attempt to exercise my very poorly developed sense of humor, take a risk on a topic about which I know little but enjoy nonetheless, be challenged with by a sharp intellect and perspectives fresh and new to me… I often long for someone to speak with me just as you did that night in the car.

But that was not the extent, was it?  I visited you that one night to satisfy the same desire – to sit comfortably with a companion and simply talk.  Sit and talk about anything and everything that our combined minds wanted to explore.  How magical was that night to me.  Resting with a glass of our now-traditional spirits in my hand, unreserved in my appreciation of the camaraderie.  I know you felt worry about what I saw, the plain flat of a working man, but I can honestly offer you the reassurance that I cared not in the slightest.  The only thing that mattered was the man sitting across from me and what we were sharing.  It is a small dream I harbor, that those occasions will stretch far into the future.  That you and I will sit and share and sip our evening drink and be two simple men enjoying our memories and anticipating the making of new ones.

__________

**Page 4**

Periodically, I review the communications we have exchanged and I always spend the most time with those that you sent to make me laugh.  To include me in a bit of jest.  That is not something with which I have familiarity but I have valued it as highly as any stock or gem.  This morning I sat chuckling at the email you forwarded to me from John.  Do you remember it?  A reader of his interesting little blog remarked that my brother resembled a certain animal and John sent you a message with the evidentiary photographs.  And you sent it on to me.  It was the most ridiculous assertion I had ever read, yet I laughed because it was also highly amusing and the darkly difficult day I was enduring was made lighter for it.  You included me, Gregory and I doubt you can fully understand the significance of that act.  Occupying the position of the outsider, whether by circumstance, choice or necessity, is wearisome at times.  Never being the one brought into the group, never being ‘in on the joke,’ is a particularly lonely existence.  But you did bring me into the group, allowed me to share the witticism.  I hope often to find something of similar humor to pass on to you, but it is telling that I have, to date, found nothing suitable.  My life is not provided with the little witty things that I am coming to realize have their own special importance.  I have been trying, however.  I did make a choice of night clothes for young Arthur patterned after your message.  How excited he was and how adorable he looked adorned in pajamas decorated with creatures that were both charming and reminiscent of my less-than-charming brother.  Of course, I did ensure he had slippers to match.  And dear Arthur photographed himself and sent me a copy that I shall forward to you, so that you might also be included.  A silly email about silly animals and my life gains an unexpected amount of joy.  This is what you give you me, Gregory; joy from very unexpected sources.

__________

**Page 5**

Colors are tricky things.  They are symbolic, inspire emotion, promote memory, affect mood, please the eye… there is a color that affects me poorly, though, aesthetically, I find it appealing.  A mature rose, a plump cherry, a child’s balloon are wondrous to behold and hold great appeal.  But, for me, the color wears its other face, the one that warns and burns and signals danger.  It is the color of my mind when, as I believe you termed it, I am ‘out of my head.’  A violent color for the violence that races through me, disconnecting all rational thought and propelling me by rage alone.  I cannot fully assert I even physically see anymore for there is nothing but a haze of color in front of my eyes and no outside visual stimulus can break through, can calm the fire or provide distraction.  It is the most horrifying experience I have ever suffered, to lose control to that degree.  Everything I have groomed and cultivated in myself torn away, my tie to reason severed and nothing but base and corrupted instincts rule my actions.  Nothing matters but what I have set in my sights to destroy and destroy it I shall.  Wholly and absolutely.  My only saving grace is that nothing in my professional life has the capacity to trigger such insanity.  That would be the end of me and I cannot say I would lift a finger to forestall my fate.

You said that my thoughts must have lived in my mind before I allowed the bile to fly from my mouth, but that is not the case.  I used the best weapons within my reach and they were not my thoughts.  They were yours.  I was not blind to the potential for doubts in your own mind over the perceived imbalances and the effects of your own actions in securing my affections.  My words were calculated very precisely and, in retrospect and with absolutely no pride in the result, succeeded quite well in meeting their objective.  I said what was necessary to deliver the most pain and chose every word, timed every utterance for maximum effect.  I intentionally attacked you, though I cannot say at the time my entire mind was turned towards that end.  One portion still focused solely on young Arthur and his welfare.  The uncertainty in that, the worry and trepidation, fueled the other part of me and a disastrous self-feeding inferno rose up, reached out and burned you as fully as it could.  My dear Gregory brutalized by the color of blood and flame and it will be years before I will be able to see that color and think of any of the kindlier examples of its expression.

__________

**Page 6**

I keep no mirrors in my office.  I sculpt my appearance carefully and rigidly and it is only when I suspect that it is failing that I seek a mirror to assess any damage and make corrections.  I keep no mirrors because I cannot abide what stares back at me when I gaze into one.  I look at you and see a stunningly handsome man.  A man of stellar character.  A man whose company others cherish.  A man who inspires friendship and affection.  I look at myself and see the opposite.  I see someone ugly and wrong, who has no one because they deserve no one.  Someone who does not inspire, or if they do, it is naught but fear and loathing.  Perhaps that is why I did not in any way block Arthur from strolling, or rather, skipping his way into my heart.  He does not see what I see and treats me like the man I wish I could rise to be.  I wear a useful mask, one of cold self-assurance and the poise of affluence and breeding, but it truly is a mask.  I know what I am, what hides beneath my skin and I have never liked it.  Never been a man content with myself.  I see others, and you are one, who possess what I crave.  I would be like you if I could, Gregory.  I would be handsome and likeable and dynamic and genuine.  I would be caring and joyfully receive affection in return, though I doubt sincerely that is a possibility.  However, I thought for a brief and nearly spiritual moment that it could be possible.  When I looked into your eyes as you looked into mine, I could almost believe that what you saw was something good.  Something worthwhile and something that you would value and find pleasing.  I would have other chances for that, if I could.  Chances to feel that wonder again, no matter how briefly.  To, for fleeting and tiny moments, believe that I was someone appropriate to be in your life.  Mirrors have never shown me a picture I desired seeing, but your eyes showed me something different.  Something I would want to see, even if it could only be when I looked at you and you looked at me.

__________

**Page 7**

I have written to you of color and again, I must turn my mind in that direction because there is another that exists on par with the first.  For some, the color of sunshine.  For others, the color of the smallest baby chick.  But, it is also the eponymous color of cowardice.  And I have been a coward, Gregory.  From the onset of our relationship and to the moment you read these words.  I feared you greatly and held you at distance.  I feared that you would see how worthless was what I had to offer you and you would leave me in contempt.  I feared a man of quality would have no use for someone as shallow and empty as me.  I feared your anger and hatred and pain and could not face you, though I was the cause of your suffering.  I have made many mistakes, true mistakes with no intent to harm, and could not summon the courage to face you and make amends.  I can offer many excuses, can likely spin a tale that would sway you to my side for that has been the training of my lifetime, but I will not further dishonor you in that fashion.

I can never approach the courage you demonstrate, my dear Gregory.  You suffer and battle through it.  You meet defeat and use it to grow.  You err and make corrections.  You face life honestly and bravely and I envy you that fortitude.  You would never have done what I have done.  You would have stepped forward to take responsibility for your actions and receive the punishment that was warranted.  I did none of that, though it is what you deserve.  That is also where my courage begins to wane.  You deserve so much, Gregory Lestrade, but I have no confidence I can give you that which you deserve.  I want to make the attempt, but I already worry that my efforts will end in failure, as have all my efforts where you are concerned.  I worry and I fear and I hide and I shame myself at every turn.  I sent an assistant out this afternoon to purchase for me a new tie.  It will be atrocious and in no way flatter my pallid complexion, but it will be the proper color for who I am and what I feel.

__________

**Page 8**

I have no doubt that you have read each of these pathetic pages in order and have been both appalled and satisfied by what you have read, hastily and shoddily composed as the pages are.  I am also sure you have some understanding of the significance of what you hold in your hands and it is my hope that you will award me some meager regard for the gesture.  But, if you examine things more closely, you might find another message.  One of significance to you and one that is offered from the depths of my soul.  I listened to your words, Gregory, and respect them.  I will honor them and will in no way place myself to block the path of your happiness.  But, I will try for us, my dear.  I will hold on and try and make every effort to demonstrate that I wish beyond all imagination for a future that binds us both in something special and, yes, magical.  You have permitted me time to spend with you and I ask for a measure of that tomorrow evening.  I have become enamored of late of a ritual called ‘film night.’  I would ask you join me in my home for a film, a casual meal and the enjoyment of some companionable time.  If you take in my correspondence, in full, and deem me worthy, I will welcome you when you end your workday.

My gratitude for your attention,

Mycroft Holmes.

__________

Lestrade had no idea how much time had passed since he read and re-read the pages in his hand.  He definitely knew the significance of what he held in his fingers.  If anyone, _anyone_ , was to get hold of this, Mycroft would be ruined.  Not one incriminating word, but a baring of his soul that must have cost Mycroft... Lestrade could not begin to calculate the cost that came with the man putting the pen to paper.  Mycroft’s enemies would pay an almost unlimited amount of money to get such a naked proclamation in their hands and it was entrusted to… him.  Well, there wasn’t really a question anymore if Mycroft trusted him.  But what did he mean by examining things more closely?  He had read, re-read and re-re-read the sheets in his hand and already he was wanting to toss them into his desk, grab his coat, seek out that gelled and coiffed bastard and lay him out, naked and beautiful, to receive the adoration that was winding its way through his own skin.

More closely… look for clues.  That was his bailiwick.  Find the meaning, the message, the shine under the surface…

Page 1 – the horribly hard and cold exterior that marked the man.  Lestrade had always known that more lay beneath, but you would never know it from Mycroft’s perfectly icy presentation.  Yeah, he knew what people called him – Iceman.  So right if you didn’t know him, but if you did… so painfully wrong.

Page 2 – his name.  Well, that was easy – Mycroft.  Lestrade had always loved the man’s name.  It _was_ like him.  Not odd, but singular, like that Hope Diamond or Michelangelo’s David.  Perfect for someone so utterly unique.

Page 3 – their first two real social encounters.  The meetings for tea had been enjoyable, but were simply opportunities to share knowledge about Sherlock and discuss areas of concern about the lad.  Lately, it was to evaluate the relationship between Sherlock and John and celebrate the changes it was making in the young Holmes.  But the night in the car, in his kitchen… they’d shared more than a few glasses of Scotch and simply focused on themselves.  Left the world behind and concentrated on each other and it had been spectacular…

Page 4 – christ… the otter email.  He’d laughed his arse off when he’d gotten it from John and immediately sent it on to Mycroft.  Afterwards, he’d regretted it, though.  Mycroft was a busy man, and who knew how busy he actually was?  A stupid email was a foolish thing to send to a pillar of the government, but it had seemed the right thing to do at the time.  And, apparently, it was.

Page 5 – no question that he was talking about _red_.  Red as the blood that soaked into the wood and plaster of the flat where Lestrade had found the dealer that had savaged poor Sherlock.  The boy normally frequented dealers that were, at minimum, businessmen but this one was nothing but an animal.  And he’d met a more savage animal when big brother Mycroft had come calling.  Lestrade was not at all sure that either the drugs dealer or his woman had a bone left unbroken in their bodies and every inch of flesh bore some wound that had oozed or splattered blood everywhere.  He could easily imagine the insanity that had taken over the calm and collected man.  And… he was right about the night with Arthur.  Mycroft had stabbed at exactly the weakest points in his psyche concerning their possible relationship.  It was the perfect surgical strike, in this case, causing the deepest pain with the fewest words, but those words played on _his_ insecurities and fears…

Page 6 – Mirrors.  Reflections and what they showed.  It was hard to read what Mycroft thought of himself.  How could he?  The man was more majestic than any example of royalty in history!  He was brilliant, cultured, interesting, humorous, unknowably wealthy and powerful… and incredibly physically desirable.  Lestrade knew he was not the stunning one, that honor went to Mycroft.  Dolled up in his posh clothes or tired and messy, the man made him weep.  In more than one bodily location.  But to know Mycroft saw something wonderful reflected in _his_ eyes… he wanted his eyes to be the first and last things Mycroft looked into each and every day…

Page 7 – No mistaking that page.  Yellow.  Yellow-bellied, yellow-stained… yeah, Mycroft was a pitiful coward.  A despicable, pathetic coward.  But at least he recognized and admitted it.  And… that explained some things.  If his little parcel was at all honest… it definitely explained some things.

Meaning… each page had a theme, a meaning, a message, a key term, a fountainhead, a prompt…

_Iceman_

_Mycroft_

_Scotch_

_Otters_

_Red_

_Mirrors… no, Reflections_

_Yellow_

__________

Lestrade refused to look back at the texts he’d sent.  He’d wanted it and he’d gotten it.  And so very, very much more.  It shouldn’t have been so easy to accept, and maybe not all edges had been worn smooth, but it was a start.  A start he hadn’t been certain Mycroft would be willing to put in place.  Now, he just had to decide where that start would ultimately lead. 

__________

_Got your message.  Glad you finally said it – GL_

_Film tomorrow sounds good.  Pizza? – GL_

_Thank you, from depths you cannot know. – MH_

_Pizza is obligatory.  I am very looking forward to your company. – MH_

_I’m looking forward to it, too. – GL_

_And thank you, Mycroft.  It helped. – GL_

_As it did for me.  You know my heart, Gregory.  One day, I hope to know yours. - MH_


	15. Winds Blow... and Shift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued gratitude for all of the comments, ideas and encouragement...

Lestrade had barely poured his morning coffee when his phone started ringing.

      “Lestrade here.”

      “Greg?  Greg!  Hurrah!  You sound just like you, too, which is simply brilliant.  It’s me, Arthur.  Do I sound like me?  I’ve never thought about that since I’ve never heard my own voice on the phone.”

What a wonderful way to start his day.  And that wasn’t sarcasm.

      “You sound just like yourself, lad.  How’s things going?”

      “Fantastic!  Skip and I are brilliantly happy and he’s still well, so I’m pretty chuffed about that   and I had pie for breakfast and there’s not a lot better than pie in the morning when you’re hungry and all that’s in the refrigerator is pie.”

      “Pie, huh?  Nice choice.  And I’m very glad to hear that Martin’s holding strong.  Lots of people need a few tries before they kick the habit, but he’s got a lot of support doesn’t he… that’ll make things a lot easier for him.”

      “He’s got _lots_ of support.  Lots and lots… which is really, really good when you’re having a spot of bother with something.  Not matter what it is that’s causing the bother.  Like losing your favorite jacket or having problems with your sort-of boyfriend.  Not that that’s why I called, of course.  I just wanted to see how you were doing since I haven’t talked to you since we left London and you looked a little ill and then My… then I got to worrying about how you might be feeling so I called and… how are you doing?”

      “Sort of ran yourself round in a circle, didn’t you?”

      “Yeah, I do that sometimes.  It’s really bad when I get back to the starting point and it’s a completely different starting point altogether!”

      “I can imagine.  And I’m doing fine, Arthur.  Just fine.  Feeling lots better, thanks for asking.”

      “Brilliant!  Because you need to be fine so that My… so that you can do your police work and be tip top.  Do you need anything?  I can send you some drawings or, oh I know! I made some sugary buns yesterday that are amazing.  I accidentally dropped one in the sink and it didn’t even soak up any of the water so I expect they’ll stay fresh for a long time.  Just made some hissing noises and, well there might have been a funny smell, but it went away quickly so that’s alright.”

Why did Lestrade believe the weapons developers would appreciate a chance to sample one of Arthur’s baked goods?

      “All of that sounds very nice, but don’t put yourself out.  I’m sure you’re busy now that you’re back home.  On the job today?”

      “Oh yes!  Actually, I have to go in a bit since Mum’s started yelling for me, but it’s not the yell that means she’s about to come after me with her purse, so I’ve got another minute.  And it’s no trouble at all.  I’ll get your address from… I’ll get your address and put together a little package.”

In the background, Lestrade heard a shrill ‘Arthur Shappey!  You had best present yourself downstairs before I start counting.  And I will not be counting past the number 1! ‘ signaling Arthur’s minute had already expired.

      “Whoops!  I think Mum’s ready to leave.  But, you really are ok, right?  Happy and jolly and feeling good?”

      “Oh yeah, all of that.  I promise all’s well in the Lestrade household.  Now, be off with you before your Mum chases you down.  You can call me another time for a longer chat, ok?”

      “Really!  That would be great!  I will… I certainly will.  Thanks, Greg.  Keep feeling good!  Bye!”

      “You too, lad.  Have a good flight.”

Sipping his coffee and smiling, Lestrade had to wonder just what prompted Arthur’s little check-in…

__________

“You’re looking better.  I’d almost say alive.”

      “Funny man.  John Watson is a funny man.   Funny looking, funny smelling…”

      “Prat.  And here I was trying to pay you a compliment.”

Lestrade had debated stopping by John and Sherlock’s flat before going to Mycroft’s home for their… well, it wasn’t a date, but he had no idea what to call a get-together between two never-made-it-to-lovers-but-hey-who-knows.  All day he’d suffered a case of nerves like a stupid teenager waiting for their first date, not that this was a date in any shape or form, and decided that he could use a friendly little visit with a mate and maybe confidence boost before he showed up at Mycroft’s door.

      “Nice to see you digging into your pocket for something besides lint.  So… Sherlock’s not around, is he?”

      “Oh, it’s _that_ kind of visit.  Don’t worry; he’s upstairs in his new hideaway.  I have no idea how he came across a bag of human teeth, but I don’t think I’ll be seeing him for awhile.  What’s up?”

      “I’ve sort of got this thing tonight and I guess I’m a little nervous.”

      “This _thing_?”

      “Yeah, it’s… look, it’s like this.  I’m going to Mycroft’s for a film and…”

Lestrade got no further since it was hard to hear his own voice over John’s loud and lingering laughter.

      “Wait… no, seriously… you were ready to push a fork through his eye and now you’re heading over for an evening in?  This requires an explanation, Detective Inspector.”

      “Maybe he offered up an apology.  Finally.”

      “Must have been a good one.  A really good one.  Come to think of it, you _were_ walking a little funny when you came in here…”

      “Hey!  I’m not that easy, despite what everyone thinks, apparently.  How in the hell I got the rep as the town bicycle, I have no idea, but let me tell you…”

      “Calm down, Greg.  Just a joke.  If there’s one person who knows how dry your dry spell’s been it’s yours truly.  So, give me the story.  I take it your meeting at the Diogenes went well?”

Honestly, Lestrade had no firm answer for that.  He’d said his bit and had been fully prepared to walk away, but that hadn’t happened.  As much as he would like to blame Mycroft’s very practiced skills at manipulation, that wouldn’t be fair.  He’d gotten drawn back in because a part of him still wanted it, wanted what had seemed so wonderful and _possible_ before everything went to hell.  With a frustrated sigh, he sank into a chair and gave his head a long hard scratch.

      “Sorta yeah, sorta no.  I got my chest clear and told him off good and proper and then… I’m still not sure how I wound up kissing the bastard like he was the last man on Earth.”

The retching sound that filled the room announced Sherlock’s presence.

      “You should get that checked out.”

      “Lestrade should get ‘checked out.’  He has likely contracted rabies, at the very least, and may require extensive surgical and pharmaceutical therapy to have any hope for survival.”

      “Your brother’s many things, but he’s not a rabid dog.”

      “Then you have never seen him when a fresh tray of biscuits is removed from the oven.”

      “Getting old, Sherlock.”

      “Such is the characteristic of a classic, John.”

Lestrade watched the back and forth between the two and suddenly felt a great deal better about his own situation.  What Sherlock had done to John was far worse than a few insults, filthy and disgraceful as they were.  He still was not prepared to let Mycroft back into his life, but if John could give Sherlock another chance… 

      “And anyway, I don’t think it’s any of your business whether I have rabies _or_ your brother’s got his slick, hot tongue down my throat.”

Sherlock raced out into the kitchen with a look of horrified revulsion on his face, so Lestrade considered it a job well done.

      “You’ve scarred him for life.”

      “Builds character.”

      “So… kissing.  You two seem to do that a lot.”

      “I didn’t go there for a snog, John… it just sort of happened.  A few times.”

      “Were they those ‘I hate you so much right now that I have to give you the hottest kisses of my life’ sort of things?”

      “Watching daytime telly again?

      “I refuse to answer.”

      “You need a real job.  Anyway… no.  They were more the ones that just happen when you realize you’re still stupidly attracted to a person and don’t want to walk away, even though you _really_ want to walk away.”

      “And so you agreed to a date night.”

      “One, it’s not a date.  I haven’t agreed to actually date him.  Look here, I left there without the most important think I’d come for, an apology.  Idiot still didn’t bother to just put two simple words together, even if he didn’t mean them and they were just for show.  So, I still felt pretty crap until yesterday when the apology finally showed up.  A lot of pages of apology.”

      “And that made it all better?”

That was the question of the day.

      “No, not all better.  A lot better, though.  I can at least think about him without wanting to break something, like his thick head.”

      “Well, that’s a start.  So, you’re what, feeling things out with this not-date night?”

      “Pretty much.  Maybe he’s not the right person for me in the long run, but I’ve always enjoyed his company.  I told him I needed to back off and live my life for awhile…”

      “You don’t actually have a life, Greg.”

      “Thanks for pointing that out, jobless.  Maybe I can _get_ a life, though, and I don’t need His Majesty hovering over me while I try and figure things out.”

      “He _does_ want to be with you, mate, don’t lose sight of that.  Mycroft can be full of crap most of the time and it’s hard to believe anything he says completely, but I do believe _that_ fact one hundred percent.  And I think you feel the same about him or all of this wouldn’t be tearing you up so much.”

      “I’m still not diving back in blindly, John.  Told him we could still see each other, spend a little time together, but that’s it.  No commitment, no being exclusive, nothing beyond just having a spot of fun here and there and seeing how things go.  So, tonight’s a film at his place.”

      “Could have done a film out, but I guess it’s cozier to snog when you’re safe at home.”

      “Bastard.  That is _not_ the plan.  Just a film, a little pizza, talk a little.  See how comfortable I am being social with him.  Figure we can do that sort of thing now and again and if, at some point, I’m ready to let the spark ignite, then… who the hell knows.”

      “Can’t fault your reasoning, but you might need a chaperone if you keep letting your little head offer its opinion about things.”

      “Yeah, that’s a problem.  He’s fuck-all sexy so…”

John wondered if this bit of retching was actually genuine.

      “You know what they say about eavesdropping, Sherlock.”

      “That is a successful way to uncover information an individual wishes to keep secret.  For instance, I am sure Lestrade would prefer his lackeys not know that his eyesight is failing and has descended the intelligence-quotient scale to the level of an intestinal parasite.”

      “Well, this is just building up my confidence for tonight.”

      “Tonight?  What about tonight?  What are you up to, Lestrade?  Do _not_ tell me it is something that involves Mycroft.”

Uh oh… apparently Sherlock hadn’t heard _certain_ details.

      “Then I guess I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

      “Are you _truly_ feeble-minded?  You will stay away from my brother.”

Neither of the two pairs of shocked eyes were fully registered by the young detective.

      “Care to try that one more time.  And not in a manner that makes me want to put a bit of color around your eye.”

      “He will not make you happy.  He cannot make you or _anyone_ happy.  If you pursue this, you will not find what you are hoping for.”

Lestrade could at least take some comfort in the fact that Sherlock wasn’t saying _he_ was the problem in the situation.  And he shouldn’t be surprised that Sherlock was being an infant, he always was an infant where Mycroft was concerned.

      “We’re just going to watch a film and have a bite to eat.  I didn’t even put on my thong for the occasion.”

John actually had to calm his partner for a moment before Sherlock could regain his speech.

      “You assure me that the intentions of your evening are chaste?”

      “Hang on a minute, let me shift my hoop skirt about a little.  Starting to chafe.”

      “I want your assurance, Lestrade.”

Knowing from John’s clearly amused grin that no support was coming from that direction, the Detective Inspector decided on the quickest way towards restoring the peace.

      “I give you my word that I am not going to Mycroft’s for any purpose such as going down on my knees and giving him a very wet blowjob or…”

Sherlock’s back as it flew up the stairs was the most welcome sight Lestrade had seen all day.

      “You know I’m the one who’s going to have to deal with his nightmares, right?”

      “So keep him awake… I’m sure you can think of something.”

      “Yeah… may have gotten an idea recently.”

      “Aren’t you a lucky boy?  Damn, that clock’s not running fast, is it?”

The offending timepiece seemed intent on saying that it was time for Lestrade to catch a cab, but Lestrade’s legs were offering up a piercing veto of the idea.  Maybe he could say he dropped by and lost track of time and…

      “Don’t even think about it, Greg.  Despite this case of the quivers, you’re looking forward to your evening and you know it.”

And he was.  Despite his reservations, his worries, doubts, misgivings… he _was_ looking forward to his not-date with Mycroft.

      “Maybe a little.  At least it’s a night I’m not sitting at home by myself.”

      “You know… you’re always welcome here.  Sherlock can be a handful, but you know he doesn’t mind having you around.”

And the nice thing was that John wasn’t simply being polite.

      “That’s good of you, mate.  And I might take you up on it.  It’s been a little hard getting used to an empty house and, yeah… I could use a spot of company now and then.  And you two shouldn’t be strangers, either.  Sherlock breaks in all the time when he wants something, but don’t feel you both can’t come around for a proper visit.”

      “I’d like that.  Now, if you’re through trying to procrastinate, out of here with you!  And have fun.”

      “I’m going, I’m going… and thanks, John.  I’ll let you know how things go.”

      “And I’ll make sure Sherlock’s not eavesdropping again.”

__________

Of course Mycroft’s place looked as regal as his club.  Lestrade had fretted all day about how he would dress for their evening and hoped to heaven he wouldn’t disappoint.  Simple grey cotton trousers and a plain, loose black shirt that he most emphatically did not choose to emphasize his hair, which he knew Mycroft liked.  Not too casual, not too dressy… ok, he was stalling.  Standing there reminiscing about getting himself dressed meant his nerves were getting the better of him again and Lestrade refused to let it be that obvious.  As it was Mycroft would take one look at him and know everything anyway, but he could at least hold onto the honor of not having made it any easier for the man.

Even the doorbell sounded wealthy.  Lestrade half-expected a proper butler to answer the door and was quite relieved when Mycroft himself greeted him.  Oh crap… the man looked sinful.  Dark blue trousers and a wine-colored button-up.  Gorgeous jewel-tones that glowed against his pale skin.  This was going to be rough…

      “Gregory… how good of you to come.  I am very pleased you agreed to share a portion of your precious free time with me with evening.  Come in…”

Mycroft stepped back to let Lestrade enter and the Detective Inspector hoped his hitch of breath at seeing the opulence of his surroundings went unnoticed.  Or would at least go unremarked.

      “Nice place you’ve got, Mycroft.”

      “How gracious of you to say so.  In truth, it is a tad fussy for my tastes, but the décor is really for other’s appreciation and not my own.  It is interesting how a simple vase here or a rug there can influence a person’s perceptions and attitudes.”

Lestrade had no problem believing that.  For instance, he was absolutely certain that the vase sitting proudly on the highly-polished table in the entrance was worth more than one of Mycroft’s cars and that was definitely shaping his perceptions and attitudes.

      “Fortunately, only a few areas are routinely frequented by visitors, leaving the rest to be managed on my own terms.”

Mycroft motioned him to follow and Lestrade was especially careful not to accidentally trip or slip or anything to (a)make a fool of himself and (b)break something that cost a year’s salary.  In a few moments, Mycroft was pushing open a heavy set of doors and, on entering, Lestrade thought he’d passed through the gates of heaven.  One very large flat-screen television was affixed to a wall and the various speakers that created a high-end home theater system were discretely placed around the room.  A state-of-the-art audio system was nestled into a corner and in the center of everything was a pair of large and well-cushioned chairs.  It was the policeman in Lestrade that noticed one of the chairs exhibited more wear than the other and the dents in the carpet showed furniture had been rearranged for the evening’s entertainment.  So… Mycroft didn’t spend a lot of time letting guests play in his toy room…

As if reading his mind, which was entirely possible, Mycroft validated Lestrade’s observations.

      “Welcome to my second hideaway, Gregory.  Well, perhaps third, for my study also serves as a private sanctuary, though it is still a place where work commonly intrudes.  Here, as with the Diogenes, I can lock out the world for a short time and allow myself to relax, as much as that is possible.  Please, have a seat.”

Lestrade took the chair showing the least wear and left Mycroft his familiar one.  Nothing worse than another person’s bum upsetting the imprints in your favorite seat.

      “I hope this will meet your standards.”

One bottle of very good beer was presented and Lestrade had to put his foot down to the fluttering in his chest.  Mycroft, Prince of the Universe, Holmes had gotten beer.  That was the one complaint John had about his pity-party with Martin, the lack of a good bottle of ale.  Ok, point scored for Mycroft.

      “This is great!  Tried it at a mate’s wedding and it was amazing.  Good choice.”

Mycroft Holmes should not be allowed to blush.  That little spot of color high on his cheeks should be outlawed for the things it could do to the unsuspecting and innocent bystander.  Or the Detective Inspector who was already developing a color fetish.

      “Thank you Gregory.  You are too kind.  It is rare I have the opportunity or the motivation to try something new.”

      “Well, if you ever want to do a taste testing, just let me know and I’ll be there with bells on.”

      “I promise I shall.  The last time I was involved in such an event was with a member of the Riksdagen, who was attempting to demonstrate to me the superiority of Swedish vodka over Russian.”

      “And what’d you decide?”

      “I haven’t the faintest idea.  I regained consciousness somewhere over Hungary en route to my next round of meetings with my assistant glaring down at me holding a pain reliever and a very large glass of very plain water.”

Fortunately, Lestrade had swallowed his sip of ale so that he wasn’t in the position of having to affect a quick wipe down of Mycroft’s furnishings.  This was the Mycroft that Lestrade adored.  Sherlock could squawk all he wanted, but his brother had a tremendous sense of humor.  And was positively breathtaking when he smiled.

      “Bad enough your head’s about to explode, but then you have an audience.  Been there.  More than once.  Guess we’ll have to take notes or something so we’ll actually know which beer won first prize.”

Oh… how Mycroft enjoyed the turn of the conversation.  Towards the future.  Perhaps it was foolish to take such hope from such a casual discussion, but if he was honest with himself, Mycroft was very eager for any flash of hope he might receive.

      “Agreed.  Now, shall we choose our entertainment?  If it is not boastful, I will say that I have quite the collection.  Simply ask and I’m sure I will be able to oblige.”

Lestrade had no doubt about that.

      “Something funny.  I could use a good laugh.”

      “Hmmm, recent or classic?”

      “Classic.  I probably shouldn’t admit this, but I’m a sucker for old films.  Thought I’d grow up to be a song-and-dance man I watched so much Danny Kaye and Eddie Cantor.”

      “I will expect a performance as soon as I procure a proper accompanist.”

      “Unfortunately, I need a bucket to carry a tune, so I’ll have to find another way to entertain you.”

      “I look forward to it.”

What was wrong with him?  Lestrade had to wonder if he had some forgotten brain trauma that was causing him to be so careless.  Now was not the time to be at all flirtatious.  Or to react physically to any response to his accidental flirtatiousness.  Luckily, Mycroft’s chairs had high sides.

      “So there you go, you’ve my criteria.  Make a selection.  And I expect to be impressed.”

      “A challenge.  Thrown out to someone who thrives on challenge…. ah.  Just one moment…”

Mycroft picked up a small tablet from the table beside his chair and with a few magical waves of his fingers accomplished his mission, releasing a quiet, satisfied sigh when he was done.

      “ _His Girl Friday_!  That’s the stuff!  Alright Mycroft, you win this round.  This film is super.  Why aren’t people that snappy anymore?  Can you tell me?  Like talking to the dead half of the time.  I get so tired of taking statements where every other word is ‘huh’ or ‘um.’  I mean, I didn’t have an expensive education, but I can at least string words together into an actual sentence.”

He could do so much more than that and Mycroft wished the Detective Inspector was as keenly aware of that fact as was he.  But it did give him further ideas for their little get-togethers… ideas to allow his Gregory to see for himself how erudite and intelligent Mycroft considered him.

      “I’m glad you appreciate my choice.  I also enjoy more classic films, though lately I have begun to develop a taste for newer productions.  I have a list, actually, that I am supposed to view and critique.  I am not entirely convinced there will not be an exam when I have completed the assignment.”

      “Arthur?”

      “The very man.”

      “He called me, I’ll have you know.  Wanted a little check-in, see how I was doing.  Seemed very concerned about someone he met a total of once.  Well, I guess twice.”

      “Ah… since I am endeavoring to be honest on this matter, I shall have to admit to seeking his counsel on selected issues of late.  He is surprisingly intuitive and analytical in his own way.  Does this… does this make you uncomfortable.”

It probably should, but Lestrade couldn’t find a shred of discomfort in him.

      “That you’re tossing out a line and fishing for advice?  Nah, actually… if we’re being honest, it makes me feel pretty good about things.  Can’t see you spreading your private business around without a good reason.”

Lestrade cocked his head to the side and gave Mycroft a bright smile that made the elder Holmes mouth go dry.  The man was absolutely striking.

      “The best of reasons, actually.  Very, very good reasons.”

And another brilliant smile.

      “Well, good to know.  So, when do we get pizza?”

      “At the intermission, of course.  Lay aside your concerns, Detective Inspector.  I have things well in hand.”

      “That’s one thing I never doubt, Mr. Holmes.”

__________

Lestrade wondered if everyone in London was having such an amazing evening.  Good film, good food, good beer, excellent company… when the film ended it was all he could do not to pout.

      “You look comfortable, Gregory.”

      “I am.  This is… I’m having fun.  I am having a _great_ time and I can’t say as much very often.”

      “Then I shall take that as high praise.  Might I offer you a warmer end to the evening?  I keep a fire burning in my study and… I do have a lovely scotch that I would be most delighted to share.”

Lestrade knew he should refuse.  What screams romance louder than a nightcap by the fire but… it sounded so wonderful.  He _should_ refuse, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to end their night quite so soon.

      “I’d like that.  I must say, Mycroft, you’re a perfect host.”

      “Years of training have allowed me to hone my craft, however, I cannot ever remember tending a guest who was quite so welcome.  Shall we?”

Lestrade followed his host towards a second room that pleased him as much as the first.  He had always wanted a house that would give him space for a private study or library or workroom.  And, in his most indulgent dreams, it had looked just like this.  Lots of wood and darker colors.  Big, blazing fire and large, heavy furniture.  No telly, but another audio system situated at the back of the room and a very inviting trolley of fine crystal glasses and decanters near the door.

      “Do make yourself comfortable, Gregory.  The sofa is particularly agreeable and well positioned to watch the fire.”

And Mycroft wasn’t kidding.  Lestrade sank down onto the sofa and continued to sink into an ocean of pure comfort that drew a very unmanly noise from his throat.

      “Ok, you can just change my postal address to this couch because I’m never leaving it.”

      “I have found that negotiations and discussions can be far more pleasant and beneficial when my adversaries are lulled into a blissful stupor.”

      “Well, I _hope_ I don’t fall into the adversarial category.”

      “Rest assured that could never be the case.  A second benefit of body-pampering furnishings is that when an ally arrives, you can provide them the comfort they deserve.”

This time, it was a glittering glass of amber liquid passed to his hand and with the first sip Lestrade recalled the flavor well.

      “This is what you keep in your car.”

      “And do not share, except with you.”

      “Then thank you twice over.”

Mycroft took a place near the other side of the sofa, not close enough to the other man to call his behavior into question, but not far enough away that he would appear disinterested.

      “This what you do?  At night, I mean.”

      “Not often.  Too commonly my duties require my attention until very late or I have matters to attend to elsewhere, but I do try and allow myself a few hours now and then to put all of that behind me.  Perhaps the time is spent at my club, perhaps here.  I expect that if I sought it, I would find that I could allow more time for recreation, but I have not been sufficiently motivated to do so.  I… I am hopeful that may someday change.”

Mycroft’s mind gave a sharp wince.  Was that too forward?  Neither had been particularly shy nor bold tonight and he did not want to push unduly when the night was going so well.

      “I can sympathize, though I suspect I have a lot more evenings at home than you do.  But… it does get tiring having them all be evenings alone.”

Was that an opening?  Or a simple commiseration?  Mycroft planned and implemented countless initiatives affecting entire countries that required less finesse and delicacy than wooing Gregory Lestrade.

      “We have agreed that evenings such as this are permissible, correct?  Perhaps we can both enjoy an escalation in pleasant, shared time.  Even the occasional afternoon, if we are so inclined.  I had thought to ask you… I will soon be away for several days for business and had hoped to purchase one or two new books with which to spend my hours during travel.  I would appreciate company while I engage in the selection process.”

      “You want me to go book shopping with you?”

      “If you are able to find the time to spare and are willing to donate it to my cause.”

A calculated invitation, but an honest one.  Mycroft was always amenable to adding new volumes to his collection and was very aware of the Detective Inspector’s love of reading.

      “Depends on what happens with the job, but yeah… I’d like that.”

Hopeful.  Very hopeful.

      “Excellent.  We can negotiate a mutually-suitable time.  Would you care for another drink?  It is still relatively early…”

No.  He should say no, say his goodbyes and go home.  Be strong and not give in to the extreme pleasure of Mycroft’s company.

      “I’d like that.”

So much for strength and fortitude.  Mycroft took his glass and Lestrade absolutely refused to acknowledge the very brief touch of fingertips against his skin.  And doubly refused the acknowledge the warmth of Mycroft’s skin when his refilled glass was returned to him.  It was as if the man had found a secret passage past his defenses and straight to the parts of his heart and mind he was trying to keep safe.  Oh, and he just had to kick off his shoes and wriggle his long toes, encased in what had to be velvety soft socks.  Well, two could play at that game… though his socks weren’t nearly as sexy.

      “You know… this is something I’ve always wanted.  A space like this, I mean.  Good desk, warm fire… would make bringing work home much easier to accept.”

      “I concur.  Many of my nights are spent in here, trying to complete ten hours of work in the four hours I have before I must lay down for at least a few hours of rest.  A bit of contentment helps the medicine go down, as they say.”

In his continued refusal to acknowledge anything distressing, Lestrade completely ignored Mycroft using those long toes to work the sexy socks off of his feet, leaving them bare and kneading the antique rug as they stretched and relaxed.  Christ the man had beautiful feet.  Long and sculpted as elegantly as the rest of his body.  Lestrade never thought he had a thing for feet, but the fact that he wanted to be caressing Mycroft’s lovely feet and sucking gently on his toes said otherwise.

      “No argument here.  You always keep this fire going?”

      “In the cooler months when I am in residence.  You enjoy a fire, don’t you Gregory?”

      “Love them.  Had a friend when I grew up who had a fireplace.  I found every excuse I could to go and visit, opportunistic little bastard that I was.”

      “Then let me supplement it a bit for full effect.”

Mycroft added a small log to the blaze and repositioned the existing glowing wood so that the fire burned more brightly and an extra surge of warmth flowed into the room.  It was hypnotizing watching the growing flames until Lestrade heard a sharp intake of breath.

      “Mycroft? You ok?”

There was a little strain in Mycroft’s smile as he turned it towards the Detective Inspector.

      “Without question.  A tiny ember managed to escape and teach me a lesson about approaching a hearth barefooted.  Nothing worthy of your attention.”

Lestrade was off of the sofa before Mycroft could stop him and was drawing the younger man down onto the plush rug so that he could inspect the wounded foot.

      “Gregory, this is truly unnecessary.”

      “Shut it, you.  Burns are nasty buggers. Hurt like hell and get infected if you just look at them wrong.”

Lestrade held Mycroft’s foot carefully and raised it slightly to better see what damage had been done, forcing Mycroft to lean back and prop himself on his elbows.  And there it was, a reddening spot of skin where the hot ember had landed.  It made Lestrade very angry that anything living or non-living had reached out and hurt his… he wasn’t going to spare a thought about terms right now.

      “Shall I survive?”

      “I’m not sure.  There could be considerable internal damage.  Scarring could be massive.”

Stroking Mycroft’s foot was probably not the proper course of action at the moment, but Lestrade couldn’t remember starting and couldn’t think of a reason to stop.  Especially with Mycroft staring at him with those lovely eyes.

      “I have heard of, though have yet to experience, the phenomenon of using a kiss to repair an injury.  Might that be helpful in this situation?”

      “Kiss it and make it better… yeah, that might be what he doctor ordered.”

And one whisper-soft kiss landed on the wounded skin, prompting one whisper-soft sigh from the recipient.  A slightly firmer kiss gained Lestrade a slightly firmer sigh and a long lick across the top of Mycroft’s foot earned him a low moan that shot straight through him, coursing through every nerve like an electrical shock.  Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who had a thing for feet… and that was fine.  Lestrade loved giving the attention as much as Mycroft enjoyed receiving it.  And every part of Mycroft’s body seemed as warm and spicy as his lips.  Running his tongue along the very soft side of Mycroft’s pale and graceful foot, Lestrade savored the sensation as he did the feel of fine scotch as it slipped past his lips and when he wrapped those lips gently around Mycroft’s toes, he wasn’t sure who groaned the loudest.  One look was spared for his partner and Lestrade’s body shivered seeing Mycroft’s head thrown back as he allowed his body to be worshipped by the very willing Detective Inspector, whose free hand had begun moving upwards over a lightly muscled calf and thigh.

      “Gregory… please…”

The need threading through Mycroft’s voice captured the last bit of reason and excuse from Lestrade’s mind and started his lips moving upwards across a silky instep and bit of ankle before he found himself crawling across the lean body that was now laying flat on the rug and taking Mycroft’s lips with his own.  This was so wrong… so fast and so reckless and so arousing and so needed… strong hands wrapped around his back and moved slowly, tracing each curve of his body, lingering just below the base of his spine, pulling downwards so Lestrade could be sure that his own desire was met by one just as powerful.  The slightest hiss of his name was the only warning before Lestrade was gripped more tightly and slowly rolled until he was the one on his back, with a warm solid weight pressing against him.  Mycroft kissed him like a man finding water in the desert, letting his fingers run through Lestrade’s hair, gripping tightly now and then, which made Lestrade’s body arch to beg for more contact.

When Mycroft’s lips moved away from his own, Lestrade moaned in protest, but the tiny nip at the base of his neck silenced his frustration.  Mycroft had promised himself that he would place his mark on his lover the first opportunity that arose and he intensified his nip slightly, sucking and lapping at the offended skin and delighting as Lestrade’s body writhed from the attention.  Or perhaps it was because he had run a hand under the Detective Inspector’s shirt and was stroking the warm skin of his belly and chest.  It was only fair… Lestrade’s hands had been stroking the naked skin of his back and were teasing the nerves lying just beneath the waist of his trousers, dipping slightly lower with increasing regularity and making him tremble with the thought of what else those fingers could be doing to him.

When he had adorned his partner’s body with a prominent mark of his affection, Mycroft let his instincts guide him, senses tuned to the responses of the body that had him nearly hypnotized with its beauty and strength.  A body to which he had to gain more access, so Lestrade’s shirt was dragged quickly away to expose the slightly-haired skin for Mycroft’s lips to explore.  Hot… his Gregory’s body was a furnace and Mycroft fantasized about long nights wrapped tightly in powerful arms and pressed firmly against long expanses of fiery-hot skin.

      “You are exquisite, Gregory… do not ever doubt what your body does to me.”

And Lestrade could have no doubt, feeling the hard and ample weight rubbing against his thigh.  And he knew Mycroft had felt the swell of his own arousal crying for attention.

      “Then we match, Mycroft, because I’ve always known you are the most stunning man I have ever seen.”

With a small tug of direction, Mycroft was pressing his lips once again against Lestrade’s, bodies aligned so that any movement dragged flesh against flesh, an action which Mycroft gladly set into a sensual rhythm and…

      “THIS IS _NOT_ CHASTE!”

Mycoft flung himself off of Lestrade, positioning his body between Lestrade and whoever had to dared invade his home and threaten his lover.

      “SHERLOCK?”

      “Good lord, Sherlock… what in the HELL are you doing here?”

Lestrade groped about for his shirt and pulled it on while taking position next to Mycroft.

      “I don’t blame you, Lestrade.  At least not beyond your obvious stupidity and pathetically weak will.”

      “You will not speak to Gregory in that manner, Sherlock.  And you will leave immediately.”

Mycroft’s mind was rapidly trying to reestablish itself and find a strategy to salvage the situation.

      “I think not.  On both issues.  Lestrade is incapable of correctly interpreting your behaviors and motivations and I will gladly make myself at home until he realizes this simple fact, breaks away from your grip and finds his way home.  I _did_ warn you, Mycroft.”

      “Dammit Sherlock!  You have no say in my life and…”

      “Someone has to have a say.  It is clear that your judgment cannot be trusted when the subject is my brother.  There is nothing good that can come from an association with Mycroft.  He is manipulative, duplicitous, uncaring about those around him, incapable of sincerely experiencing or demonstrating any form of affection and is not deserving of any measure of trust.  Make no mistake – you are a novelty for him.  A different sort of toy with which to play, but one that will be inevitably cast aside the moment someone shinier and newer crosses his path.  If you have interpreted the situation any differently, then you are a fool.”

Lestrade’s jaw dropped and it was only the fact that Mycroft had wrapped his arm around his waist that his body didn’t follow suit.

      “Sherlock… you will leave my home and consider yourself forever barred from setting foot across my threshold!”

      “As if your meager security measures are any form of real obstacle.”

Sherlock tossed his lanky form onto the sofa and the stubborn set of his jaw told Lestrade that if something didn’t break, things could get out of hand quickly.  Plus… he needed to get out of there.  Once again, he’d let his hormones take over and throw his resolve out the window.  Sherlock was right… he _was_ weak-willed…

      “Sherlock Holmes, you will remove yourself from my sight this instant and…”

      “I’ll go, Mycroft.  I’ll go… it’s getting late anyway.  Th…thanks for the film.  We should… yeah, guess I’ll be off.”

Lestrade attempted to move away from Mycroft, but the other man gripped him tighter and placed a small kiss on his cheek.

      “That is the last thing I desire, Gregory, but, in this circumstance, it might be the wisest course.  Let me escort you out.  Sherlock you will _not_ interfere.”

Sherlock’s petulant snort grated sharply against Lestrade’s nerves but the hand that was now resting against his lower back and gently guiding him out of the room soothed away much of the irritation.  When they were out of earshot of the study, Mycroft took his partner again in his arms and did everything he could through simple touch to convey how much of a falsehood were Sherlock’s accusations.  His fears remained strong until he felt Lestrade’s arms close around his waist and relax into his embrace.

      “Please tell me that you are duly ignoring Sherlock’s childish outburst, Gregory.  If I can ask anything of you, let it be that you are not taking anything he said to heart.”

      “Doing my best.  He was right about one thing, though… I have absolutely no self-control when it comes to you.  Can’t even keep to the plan of a simple night with a chum.”

      “And am I any better?  That was also my intent and I failed as surely as did you.  But that does not mean we do not try again.  We have our shopping excursion on the horizon and there will be no opportunity for, shall we say, busy hands during that encounter.  And I truly enjoyed this night, Gregory.  All of it… everything we do is something I treasure, no matter how small or simple, so do not let Sherlock poison your mind with his vitriol.  I shall deal with him tonight and will contact you tomorrow to arrange our next meeting.  Is that acceptable?”

The ‘please say yes’ was not spoken, but Lestrade read it easily in Mycroft’s eyes.  He was supposed to be stepping back.  Getting some space.  He’d wanted that desperately, so why was it all now sounding so foul?

      “Sounds good.  And I had a great night, too.  Call me a cab?”

      “The car is waiting.  I would not entrust you to a cab at this hour.  For goodness sake, one was foolhardy enough to transport Sherlock!”

Seeing his dear Gregory laugh again, calmed some of the anger that Mycroft was skillfully keeping hidden.  And taking a final kiss from his lips gave him hope that he might actually be able to clear away enough that he could find some sleep before he had to meet the morning.

      “Goodnight, Gregory.”

      “Goodnight, Mycroft.  Talk to you later.”

      “Without question.”

And his Detective Inspector was turning away and walking towards the car idling in wait.

      “Goodnight, love.  Sleep well…”

__________

      “Finally come to his senses?”

If Sherlock’s face had held any expression other than his smugly satisfied smirk, Mycroft might have been able to control himself.  As it was, it took every ounce of control for him to simply drag his now hotly-protesting brother off of the sofa, through his home and hurl him into his entertainment room, slamming the doors and locking them behind him.

      “You can’t hold me in here, Mycroft!  You know I’ll get out!”

From a one-entrance, no window room with a custom-designed electronic lock… not likely.  Mycroft retrieved his phone and placed his call, breathing steadily and slowly to keep himself from flooding his entertainment room with nerve gas.

      “What in the… Mycroft?  What in the world…”

      “You need to come and retrieve him, John.  As quickly as possible.  I cannot guarantee how long I will be able to ensure his person remains intact.”

      “Oh god, what’s he done?  How’d he get out of the flat?  Wait… wasn’t Greg… OH GOD!”

      “Quickly, doctor.  That is my best advice.”

      “On my way.  Drink tea.  Lots of tea.”


	16. A Snapshot of Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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Mycroft took small solace in the fact that, upon opening his door, it was clear that John’s fury was a close match to his own.

      “Where is that bastard?”

      “Securely locked away for the duration.”

      “That explains the banging and yelling.”

      “I continue to hope that he will deplete his energy and fall silent, yet he is determined to vex me in this, as in everything.”

Mycroft escorted John into his study, if only because he suddenly felt quite naked in his bare feet.

      “Ok… two pairs of shoes…”

Damnation!  He had sent Gregory out of the house unshod.  It could not be a hopeful sign that the man had neither noticed nor sent him any message inquiring about the status of his missing footwear.  In truth, Mycroft could not fault the Detective Inspector if this was the proverbial final straw.  Who would desire to pursue any further time with a man whose insane brother could appear like Marley’s ghost to haunt their every step.

      “…two glasses and the pile of that rug has gotten mussed.  In front of the fire.  Muss area about the size of a romantic encounter that involved no shoes and a right old wrinkling of the clothes.  I am so sorry, Mycroft.  It was going well, wasn’t it?”

      “Very well, I believe.  An extremely successful evening, culminating in an unexpected shift in the winds that was… extraordinarily pleasant.”

      “Then that prick Sherlock drops out of the sky and ruins everything.”

      “Well put.  He was most disturbed to find myself and Gregory, shall we say, enjoying our time together.”

      “Walked in on Dad and Dad having a bit of fun and lost it completely.  Yeah, sounds just like him.”

      “Provided you acknowledge that one of his proverbial paternal figures is hated with a vengeance that transcends years and countless attempts to…”

Mycroft broke off the thread of his statement, knowing it would lead nowhere productive.  John did not need to be burdened by his own regrets and dashed hopes concerning his brother.  It was a burden he was very used to carrying alone.

      “I don’t think he actually hates you, Mycroft.  I admit I don’t know what he _does_ feel for you, but I suspect it’s something deep and complex and he has less understanding of it than even I do.  And I think he’s terrified of trying to untangle it all, so he takes the easy way out.”

      “Yet the result is the same.”

John wished he could argue, but that wasn’t possible because it was completely true.  It was during times like this that, despite everything, John actually felt sorry for Mycroft Holmes.  He _had_ tried for Sherlock, even though he could be his own brand of a handful at times and for that John had great sympathy.  He’d suffered his own thankless years with his sister and, like Mycroft, there was no sunshine on the horizon.

      “Unfortunately, yes.  I wish it wasn’t the case, but we both know how he is.  How angry was Greg?  It’s lucky, I guess, that he also knows just what a mental patient Sherlock can be and how he just loves spreading around the crazy.”

Anger would have been preferable…

      “Anger is not the emotion of note.  He was embarrassed, insulted, perhaps a bit ashamed…”

      “Yeah, Greg’s fighting a lot of emotions and ideas when it comes to you and to his life in general…  and he’s really having a hard time of it, if you haven’t guessed.  But, he’s still not slammed any doors and it sounds like, from what you’ve said, that he’s opened this one up a crack more.”

      “That may have been true, John, but how do you think he will respond to this, shall we say, _incident_?  And I cannot guarantee it will not happen again unless I shackle Sherlock in your flat for the next few months until I can, hopefully, secure Gregory’s affections.”

      “No… I can’t agree to that and I’ll enlist Arthur’s help if I need to.  I may love the git, but I cannot spend every minute of my life with him and stay sane.”

      “I said shackle _him_ , John.  Not you.”

      “Oh, well that’s fine then.  Carry on.”

Mycroft made a mental note to do something appropriate for the good doctor.  The man was becoming a valuable ally.

      “I shall make suitable arrangements.  Now, may I trouble you to take possession of ‘the git’ and spirit him away?”

      “Don’t you want to talk to your brother?”

      “Not at this time, John.  I cannot offer any assurance that he will exit that conversation in the same physical condition as when he entered it.”

John had seen Mycroft irritated, frustrated, even hurt by his brother many times, but he’d never seen the elder Holmes quite so fed up and angry.  He had to wonder how much of the anger was for himself and how much was for Greg’s benefit.

      “He was that bad?”

      “I will not repeat his words, to spare your sensibilities, but I will say they very negatively affected Gregory and that is not something I will tolerate or allow.  Sherlock may deride me at his leisure, but he will not slander my…”

Mycroft bit off his sentence and cut his eyes away from his guest.

      “No you don’t.  Keep going.”

With what?  And, with the continued disruption and setbacks, there might never be anything to add.

      “I cannot.  I have nothing suitable to append to that sentence that has been mutually-agreed upon and I will not provide Gregory with a label that might meet with his disapproval.”

      “It’s a tough position to be in, isn’t it?  I _still_ don’t exactly know what to call Sherlock… how to describe what we are.  Nothing seems quite right and we’ve got a more formal relationship than you do.  For now, ‘my’ is good enough, even if you only say it in your head.  Just don’t let yourself get too possessive or you’ll wind up with Greg’s fist in your face.  And I’ll add in a few kicks to your arse, for good measure.”

It was only a pitiful few weeks ago that Mycroft considered himself a tidy little island floating among the chaos around him, satisfied, but completely alone.  Now... he was a part of something that had erupted around him and drawn him in as part of the flow.  There was still a sense of strangeness that he had individuals who could be contacted for no reason more significant than to share a lively word, but he could not see willingly returning to his former state, even though it offered a greater level of comfort and routine, because what it did _not_ offer was becoming nearly priceless to him.  Yes, ‘my’ was a good word.  My infuriating brother, my sweet Arthur, my cousin Martin, my friend John, my dear Gregory…

      “I shall endeavor to do my best.  Now, I will release Sherlock to your care and attempt to gift myself with an hour or two of rest.  My day, unfortunately, starts very early this morning.  And… if I might seek a favor, John… if it is at all feasible, attempt to make Sherlock see reason.  It is sufficiently difficult to make my amends to Gregory without having to make amends for my brother, as well.”

      “I can give it a try, but you know him.  Once he’s got something in his head, it takes a shovel, axe and crew of miners to dig it out.  But I _will_ try, Mycroft, that much I can promise you.”

      “That is all I for which I can hope.  Thank you, John.  There will be a car waiting when you are ready to depart.”

__________

John watched Mycroft walk away and winced at the slumped shoulders, so atypical of the man’s normally impeccable posture.  Not that Mycroft was his cup of tea, but seeing him so particularly _human_ , with his rumpled clothes and shadowed eyes, made him understand better Greg’s attraction.   Now, he just had to make Sherlock understand and stop being such a complete bastard.

Mycroft had disengaged the lock to Sherlock’s prison before vanishing to pull himself together and John debated just letting the detective stew for awhile longer in solitude.  But postponing the inevitable never made anything better and it wasn’t a soldier’s or a doctor’s way to handle a situation, regardless.  Letting his anger at Sherlock’s behavior fuel his confidence, John pushed open the doors and walked in with his best military stride.

      “Good going, you tosser.  I didn’t think it was possible for you to be more of a prick than you already are, but you topped your own record.  Really, I wish I had a ribbon or something to give you.  A pretty ribbon with the words – Top Notch Bastard – printed in gold.  Maybe I’ll get Arthur to make one for me, he’d love another crafts project.”

Sherlock was splayed across one of Mycroft’s plush chairs staring pointedly and with greatly exaggerated boredom at the ceiling, but John couldn’t miss the reddened hands from banging continually on the heavy door that had kept him imprisoned.

      “Your sarcasm is tedious.”

      “Your _behavior_ is tedious.  And absolutely unacceptable.  There is _no_ excuse for this, Sherlock.  None at all.  I’m used to you treating your brother like shite, not that I approve, mind you, but did you even stop and think about Greg?  How he might feel having you barge in like that and, apparently, spew stomach acid around like some goddam movie alien?”

      “How he felt is immaterial.  That he left was the crucial element.”

      “Seriously, what is wrong with you?  They were just having a nice evening and what’s it to you if it was getting a little heated.  They’re two grown men looking for some fun in their lives and I cannot begin to understand why you would have such a problem with that.”

      “You fail to listen, John.  I have outlined my reasons quite succinctly and more than once.  Mycroft is not to be trusted in this.  Why you refuse to listen to and believe that simple fact confounds me.”

      “Maybe because you don’t offer any reasons for your accusations.  You don’t believe things without proof, so why should I?”

Sherlock swung his body around and hopped to his feet.  John absolutely did not like the taunting look splashed across his partner’s face.

      “Do you want names?  I can prepare a list for you of the pitiful and disposable men who have been used and discarded.  In truth, I am not certain that Mycroft can even remember them all.  If you pass me a calendar, I can mark off the mornings I have made a, shall we call say, surprise arrival only to find a rather confused and partially dressed cast-off scurrying off into one of my brother’s ridiculous vehicles?  What type of proof do you want, John?  Tell me and I will gladly gather it for you so that you might stop fighting me on this issue and begin to assist, instead!”

      “Sherlock… I know this is not something you’ve had a great deal of experience with, but there are a lot of people in this world just looking for quick and casual and aren’t too picky about who they do the quick and casual with.  And, not to my credit, but I’ve done more than my fair share of walks of shame the morning after, sometimes after waking up alone with or without a note saying thanks for the shag.”

      “It is not the same, though it is disgraceful nonetheless.”

      “Tell me why not, and fuck you very much for your opinion.”

      “You don’t know him, John!  He has no conscience, no sense of loyalty to anyone but the Crown.  He can impersonate a concerned and caring individual when the need presents itself, but there is nothing but falsehood behind his sympathetic smile.  He has never worn a true smile in his entire life, John.  Never a single time.  You have never seen him smile so graciously, turn his back and nothing remains.  Not a memory, not a single trace that it ever existed because it was entirely faked to achieve some goal.  His whole _manner_ is entirely affected to suit the needs of the moment and to achieve specific objectives.  He cannot be trusted for _anything_ and I will not allow Lestrade to fall victim to Mycroft’s uncaring cruelty.  I…”

John watched quietly as Sherlock drew his thoughts together.

      “I owe this to him, John.  Further... I find that I do not wish him to come to harm.  There have been few in my life, and most have come quite recently, that have judged me worthy of continued association.  Lestrade was there at a time when I was someone… I would have spoken with only scorn and derision to an individual I met in similar straits.  I would have walked away and thought that person the lowest example of humanity, not lifting a finger to assist and would not have deleted their memory if it did not serve a secondary purpose.  Yet, he did none of that.  Lestrade never gave up on me, John, even when I made it very difficult for him to retain his hold or even continue his desire to do so.  And he remains as a figure in my life.  He is someone… he is a person who I am not entirely averse to speaking with on matters that might be deemed personal.  I cannot stand idly by and watch my brother take him apart and leave behind the scattered shards.  And you may rest assured that _is_ the endpoint of this proposed association.  I _cannot_ do that, John.  Moreover, I _will_ not do that.”

John debated pointing out that the traits Sherlock ascribed to his brother could just as easily be applied to him and decided this was not the right time for that conversation.  One day, they would start to work on the brothers’ relationship, but right now there was a more immediate concern that needed attention.  However, he did have time to spare to just enjoy the prideful glow that was slowly replacing his anger.  Sherlock would never be a social creature, or even someone for whom warmth was their natural state of being, but he had more to offer… more inside him than the world would ever give him credit for.  And dammit if that didn’t just make him love the officious prat all the harder.

      “Look Sherlock, I’ll agree that you sincerely believe all that you’re saying and that you have nothing but Greg’s best interests at heart.  However, this… tonight… wasn’t good.  At this rate, you _will_ have Greg turning away from you and I know you don’t want that.”

      “If it prevents his destruction at Mycroft’s hands, it is a price I shall gladly pay.”

Apparently a protective Sherlock was a turn on for John, because he couldn’t stop taking in his surroundings for the possibility of showing his partner just how much reward he would reap by showing this side of himself more often.  Although not in as dramatic and elaborate a fashion.

      “That’s a nice thing, Sherlock, but you might remember that sometimes when you push a person away from something, it makes them want it even more.”

      “That is completely illogical.”

      “Yeah, but so are people, so it actually makes sense.  I’m not going to say you’re wrong, but I will say you have to let Greg make his own decisions.  You’ve made your feelings known, but if he wants to give it a go with Mycroft anyway, you have to let them sort things out for themselves.”

      “And when the disaster occurs?”

      “You can’t be sure of that.”

      “I can and I am.”

      “I’m not kidding, Sherlock.  If you keep butting in, you’ll make things worse for everyone.  Anyway, Greg’s a big boy; he can handle it if things take a bad turn.”

      “A _bad turn_ , John.  Mycroft has personally executed more than a few individuals in his lifetime; do not underestimate the damage he can do to another human being.”

      “Now you’re just being silly.  Mycroft wouldn’t put a gun to Greg’s head.”

      “If he had cause, he would not hesitate.  However, I do not believe that will come to pass.  Death by gunshot is quick and relatively painless compared to what he can accomplish with other methods.”

      “Yep, time to go home.  You’re tired, cranky and starting to go off the deep end even by your own standards.  Here’s the final word.  You _will_ leave them alone.  You will _not_ break up any dates, barrage Lestrade with your propaganda, contract others to do the deed for you or in any way stick that aristocratic nose into their business in any manner.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but the firm set to John’s lips shouted that his argument would be met with equal force and the prohibition of sexual contact of any form for an unforeseeable amount of time.

      “If that is how you desire things, then I have no choice but to agree.  However, _you_ must agree that when Lestrade has been shredded and left broken, you will do everything in your power to help restore him _and_ offer me a sincere apology for your disbelief.”

      “Mates always help each other get over breakups, not that I think that’s coming any time soon, so that’s an easy promise.  And I will happily apologize if Mycroft does something ridiculous and heinous and comic-book villain-y to screw Greg over.  Satisfied?”

      “For the smallest measure of satisfaction, yes.”

      “Ok.  Now come on… you may not need any sleep, but I do and I’m positive that if Mycroft comes down for a glass of warm milk and sees you still here, you might be the one with the gun against your head.”

      “He won’t kill me, the scandal would be ruinous.”

      “You don’t think he could hide the body?”

      “Ah… hurry along, John.  Mustn’t keep the driver waiting.”

__________

Mycroft had promised himself that he would disrobe, climb into his bed and try and relax sufficiently to gain some bit of rejuvenation to face his day, so it must have been another minor revolution by his body that prompted him to situate himself instead to properly monitor the conversation between Sherlock and John.  Not that it held much in the way of revelation.  There was no surprise in the opinion his brother had of him, though it was gratifying to hear John’s understanding of the nature of his past romantic trysts.  And it was also gratifying to hear his brother’s surprisingly heartfelt words about Gregory.  I was a lovely fantasy, wasn’t it… he and Gregory together, both standing in the patriarchal role for their eclectic family…

And Sherlock was wrong… he would not compromise Gregory’s safety for any reason and it was an issue on which he had devoted much thought.  In his position, any tie was a weakness and it was highly likely that someone, at some point, would try and use that vulnerability for their own gain.  However, Gregory Lestrade was not an innocent flower who was incapable of defending himself should it become necessary.  That was another aspect of the man that thrilled the elder Holmes.  Gregory was a clever, strong, skilled and determined man who would understand the potential personal danger associated with a relationship with the mysterious Mycroft Holmes and accept it willingly.  But Gregory would never become a sacrifice for a greater good.  There was always another way, a different path or strategy to accomplish an end and he was _very_ skilled at finding and utilizing those alternatives.  It was an understandable worry, on Sherlock’s part, but it was not one that he shared.

When John finally exacted the agreement from Sherlock he had been waiting for, Mycroft heaved a large sigh of relief.  It was not a certainty that Sherlock would honor this arrangement, but it was a surer thing since it was made with John, and his brother had an impressive record of adjusting his behavior to bolster his partner’s happiness and affection.

In a few more minutes, Mycroft was finally alone and _felt_ alone.  It was a feeling that had been plaguing him since his home had been taken over by family matters and then abandoned as those matters found successful resolutions.  It had been an unexpectedly agreeable experience and still he had moments where he anticipated finding Arthur in his kitchen or Martin with his feet propped up while he read yet another book about aircraft.  He even found himself missing John and Sherlock’s presence, which had, even with Sherlock’s diva-like need to draw attention to himself, enriched their blended little group.  All that had been missing was someone to sit by _his_ side.  Arthur had said it properly.  He also wanted it to be three couples in the Holmes family, not simply two and… Mycroft.

It was a rare thing that Mycroft Holmes felt a spontaneous urge, and even more rare that he acted upon it, but something deep within him needed to reach out to his Gregory and reestablish at least a tendril of connection…

__________

_Missing something? – MH_

That small text sent, Mycroft set aside his phone and decided to simply forsake sleep and begin preparations for his day.  He was not at all expecting a response to arrive within minutes.

_Two somethings, actually.  Four if you count my socks – GL_

_I blame you.  Your sexiness fuddled my brain – GL_

Sexy… something he had never felt until he met Gregory.  How the man could take in his form and describe it with that term was incomprehensible, but he _did_.  And that was more than bit exciting.

_Be not too upset, for I have found use for your missing belongings – MH_

Mycroft quickly prepared what he hoped was an amusing tableau and sent the photograph to Lestrade.

_ROFL!  Jungles not warm enough that your monkey needs socks and shoes ;-) – GL_

_Rather a desire to embrace fashion – MH_

_Then he’d need your footwear, Bond Street boy – GL_

_Actually, that is a bit downscale for me – MH_

_Sorry, Your Grace.  No matter what, you do very nicely fill out your suit – GL_

_And your shoes – GL_

_Flattery will get you everywhere – MH_

_Preparing my script right now – GL_

_You can enact it during our shopping excursion – MH_

_Tomorrow, perhaps?  Early evening? – MH_

_Sure, if nothing comes up at work – GL_

Such was a simple thing to ensure when one was Mycroft Holmes.

_Excellent.  And I hope you are properly rested.  Have you taken any sleep? – MH_

_No, but I’m used to it – GL_

_Your mind is not troubled, I hope – MH_

_Just a little agitated.  Nothing to worry about – GL_

_I shall take pains to remedy that during our next meeting – MH_

_Agitation is not conducive to proper book selection – MH_

_Yeah, hate to get a story about vampires from outer space – GL_

_I take that back.  That’s first in the bag – GL_

_My Gregory is a man of discerning taste – MH_

Oh dear… decidedly a potential misstep…

_No question.  Connoisseur of trashy novels since puberty – GL_

Now, wasn’t that a pleasant curl of warmth settling into Mycroft’s chest.  Gregory Lestrade was a very observant man, so he surely did not miss the small faux pas… perhaps John was correct.  ‘My’ was sufficient for the time being…

_I stand in awe of your dedication to literary culture – MH_

_And you’ll get it full force tomorrow.  Like a bad kebab in the gut – GL_

_How I adore the color with which you enhance your discourse – MH_

_All the credit goes to crap books and worse telly. – GL_

_Heading into work early and need to grab a shower.  Talk to you later? – GL_

_Without doubt.  Have a good day, Gregory – MH_

_You too, Mycroft.  See you tomorrow. – GL_

__________

The sun hadn’t risen, yet Mycroft felt a brightness in his home that he’d worried Sherlock had quashed.  Gregory was still amendable to his attentions, responded well to his attempt at humor and his tiny presumption in possessive pronouns. And, it all felt so natural.  How was it that he was so easily able to communicate with the Detective Inspector, on any subject no matter how trivial?  How utterly refreshing… and greatly treasured.  Tomorrow… tomorrow would be a most delightful day…


	17. The Lure of Books

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my thanks to everyone who is reading and leaving comments and kudos... keeps me focused and motivated and gladdens my heart to no end...

Yesterday was an incredibly stupid day.  Nutter decides that basic traffic laws were really just suggestions and suddenly there were four broken cars and six broken people that had to be sorted out.  Then a completely different nutter gets the great idea to rekindle his relationship with his ex-wife by holding her and their young son hostage with a very large knife.  All on no sleep and nerves still raw from Sherlock’s psychotic break… and no mention would be made of the demon on his shoulder that kept whispering descriptions of certain portions of the previous night into his ear and making it very difficult to remain polite in public.  It was not at all fair that so much intelligence, humor and sex appeal could be wrapped up into one pristine and elegant package.  But since that package was interested in him, he wasn’t going to complain too loudly.

The highlight of the day had been the call from John detailing his chastisement of the consulting prat and the bit of reassurance he’d gained that today’s outing wouldn’t end up the same way as his last meeting with Mycroft.  It also wouldn’t end up with Mycroft’s warm body pressing him down into a soft rug, but that was for the best.  Really, it was for the best.  The very best.  No question about it.  And this shirt made him look like a homeless man.  How was he going to be a suitable chap to be seen with the likes of Mycroft Holmes wearing a homeless shirt?

___________

Yesterday was a tiresome day.  Mycroft despaired sometimes that those in charge of guiding the world towards the future were the individuals least capable to do so.  If intelligence were water, there would not be enough to fill a thimble from the lot of them combined.  He had spent most of his time explaining why certain decisions were so ridiculous that the decision-maker should be sterilized lest their crippled genes be passed on to further contaminate the gene pool.  The remainder of the time had been spent implementing damage control for those decisions that had put into action without his consultation.

The highlight of the day had been the few texts from Arthur demanding updates towards his ‘boyfriend mission’ as it had been termed and the brief snatches of surveillance he was able to observe of the handsome DI Lestrade.   How striking was the man when he commanded his people or… frankly, when he took any action.  Or inaction.  A still life worthy of a Master artist as he leaned against his vehicle, hands against the hood such as with the men they placed in advertisements to highlight the virility and sensuality of the newest model of luxury car.  And here _he_ was wearing a tie that would put the average person in mind of vaguely-remembered schoolbook photographs of the Kaiser.  Didn’t he own a more engaging tie?

__________

Lestrade had agreed to meet Mycroft at a bookstore that, despite his vast knowledge of the city, he hadn’t run across before.  He’d been worried, seeing the very elegant exterior that the few quid he could put forth for a new book wasn’t going to even buy him one of those tatty bookmarks with kittens they sold near the till, but once inside he began to unwind.  It was still a very elegant store, but he at least recognized the authors whose books were on display and those books seemed to be offered at list price and not a special ‘I’m so rich, here’s a bag of diamonds for that P.D. James reprint’ price.  A far cry from the second-hand places he shopped, but life was too short to pass up a chance to find out what sorts of books Mycroft would purchase.  He’d lay in bed this morning wondering about that and his lists ran from woefully dry and painfully long descriptions of topics three people in the world found interesting to wetly sexy adventure tales with guns blazing in exotic tropical locales.  He had a bet with himself on the latter…

      “Ah Gregory, I am delighted to see you.”

Voice like a kitten lying on silk.

      “Likewise, Mycroft.  Thanks for asking me.  Nice shop, looks like I’ll be able to find a lot of good stuff here.”

      “I have no doubt.  They offer a very wide selection, so your vast and fascinating array of interests should be suitably covered.  Shall we?”

      “Great.  Point me to the mysteries.  Really nice tie by the way.  Good color for you.”

Mycroft curtailed his unseemly urge to preen and motioned Lestrade towards an area of the shop.

      “Mysteries, how interesting.  I would have assumed that your daily activities would preclude an off-time interest in criminal misconduct.”

      “Nah, besides, their crimes are so much more fun than real ones.  Look at that Poirot bloke.  Cruises down the Nile, gets a ride on the Orient Express… how much of that does a regular copper get to do?  Zero.  Toby Peters!  Don’t get me started on him… gets to work for everyone in old Hollywood… that’s the life.  All the classic private dicks… love ‘em all.  So, I gotta read the new books out there to find any jewels that might be hiding out, don’t I?”

      “Without question. One must always cull through the chaff to find the wheat.”

      “And what section will I find you in?  I doubt there’s a whole case set aside on practical tips for world domination.”

      “Heaven’s no… there are _several_ cases for that particular topic, however, a special key and passcode are required to achieve access.  Then, of course, there is the leopard to contend with, but she is a dear thing once you get to know her.”

Lestrade had to apologize to the elderly woman he startled when he broke out laughing but it was worth it to catch the twinkle in Mycroft’s eye.

      “Well, give her my love.  I’ll stay in the civilian section where it’s safe.”

      “It is very difficult to guarantee your safety in this dangerous world, Gregory, therefore I shall also remain in the civilian section, if only to add my sword to the fight.”

      “The more the merrier, I say.  And this way, if we go down fighting, at least we’ll go together.”

      “My dear Gregory… always looking on the bright side of life.”

      “I see a Monty Python marathon in the future.”

      “Perhaps.  If you can cut down the mightiest tree in the forest.  With a herring.”

      “I am the luckiest man in the world.”

__________

Lestrade left Mycroft in the general vicinity of history, politics and economic theory and jumped headlong into the expansive mystery and thriller section that spread out over the back quarter of the shop.  It was fantastic!  The number of titles was massive and he found himself pulling book after book down from the shelves to admire the cover art and devour the description on the back or inner flap.  It seemed no time had passed before he had a tower of crime novels piled on a conveniently-placed table and had to begin the reshelving process.  And then, he did it again.  This shop was very dangerous since they had _everything_ but not one bit of it was on discount.  He’d have to budget a little extra if he wanted to shop in a place like this more often.  That’s if they let him back in.  How in the hell was he able to make so much mess?  There were books everywhere!  Some little old gremlin was going to pop up anytime now and start swearing at him for being such a pig.  So another round of reshelving, which of course, brought more interesting books to his attention and it was a matter of using one hand to replace a book while the other hand drew another down.  But, one thing caught his eye and that was a book high on top of the shelf, like it was overstock, that didn’t have another copy on the regular shelves.  And it looked good.  Lestrade wasn’t sure how a book could look good just by the spine, but that criteria had served him well in the past and since there was no one around to witness…

The shelves were fairly high, so Lestrade had to prop his foot on the bottom of the case, gently sliding away a few books that were blocking his toes, and gave himself push to try and reach the book he wanted.  With the first try a failure, he put more vigor into the second and the last minute jump might have ended poorly if his landing hadn’t been guided by strong hands around his midsection.  Hands that made sure he was steady on the ground before settling lightly so that warm arms wrapped around him and held him against an equally warm body.

      “Good heavens, Gregory.  What would your colleagues think if they saw you clambering about so unhandily?”

      “That I’m a little clumsy and a lot stupid.  Same as every day.”

      “Tis a shame, but you do associate with surprisingly unobservant and dull-witted individuals at times.”

Though he felt he should protest the description of his team, Lestrade decided that since (a) it was partially true and (b) Mycroft arms gripped him a little tighter as if to protect him from the unobservant dull-wits, he’d let the judgment stand.

      “Are you willing to share the impetus for your bit of acrobatics?”

      “This.  Looked good and they didn’t have a copy down here.”

      “It ‘looked good?’ ”

      “Yeah, I know… can’t judge a book by its cover and all that but… what can I say.  It looked good.”

Actually, Mycroft believed you could _often_ tell a book by its cover, though in certain cases, the cover most certainly did not tell the whole story.  The man in his arms was evidence of that particular fact.

      “Very well.  I will agree to put full faith in your bibliophilic clairvoyance until such time as it is proved to be nonsense and tomfoolery.  Now, is this all that has caught your eye?”

The next several minutes were spent dragging books back off of the shelf to show and discuss with Mycroft and it was good while before Lestrade consciously recognized that Mycroft had yet to move away and they were still locked in a casually affectionate embrace that felt… right.  It felt good and normal and although he should be inoffensively disengaging himself from Mycroft’s arms, he couldn’t actually command any part of his body to start the process.  Nope, everything was completely content where it was and had no intention of being anywhere else.  Stupid traitorous body parts.  The one time he tries to get his body to actually listen to his brain, instead of letting instincts guide him, the whole mess says ‘fuck off’ and leaves him to just cope with it.  Not that Mycroft was doing anything about the situation either…

__________

Was Gregory _trying_ to kill himself?  Admittedly, Mycroft rarely considered a physical solution to a problem, but launching himself upwards like a toy rocket to retrieve a book was a very suitable way to gain one’s self a concussion, at best.  Fortunately, he had been seeking his Detective Inspector and was able to forestall such an occurrence, but really… the man needed to have a care.  However, he couldn’t readily muster a chastisement seeing the excited look on his Gregory’s face when he presented his prize.  So few drew excitement from books anymore and the brightness in the man’s eyes and his large and youthful smile were simply adorable.

And how delightful it was to be the recipient of that enthusiasm as the Detective Inspector proudly displayed the books at which he had been looking, complete with anticipated plot points and writing styles.  It was a goodly while before he even noticed that his arms were still surrounding the man as Gregory continued to be held gently against his chest.  Mycroft Holmes never engaged in such affectionate contact in public, let alone contact that was so perfectly natural that it completely slipped the eternal vigilance of his mind.  It was as if his Gregory was simply an extension of himself and it was right and proper to keep him close.  He likely should make a gesture, an affected cough or somesuch to surreptitiously break their contact, but… it felt completely wrong to do so.  And it was not as if Gregory was complaining…

__________

The two men did finally have to break apart as a pair of well-dressed women wandered into their section and also wanted to browse the shelves they were currently blocking.  Lestrade nodded over towards a padded bench and dragged his still-to-be-decided upon pile to place on the floor next to him.

      “Now, I’ve got to choose my finalists.  How are you doing?”

      “I have a rather sizeable stack of my own to sort through.  And I do have a few more items for which to look.  Are you ready to leave?”

      “No!  Not at all, just getting started.  Not often I get the luxury of browsing time.  Cooking section is next, then I want to see what they’ve got for… other things.”

      “Other things?  Gregory, you know very well you cannot leave a sentence undone like that if I am in the vicinity.”

      “Computer books, ok?  I need to learn more about the damned things and thought maybe I could find a book or something to help.  Don’t judge me.  I’m old.”

Ah, there was a small peek of insecurity.  So utterly ridiculous, but it was understandable.  Especially by someone not too many years behind him.

      “Age is in the mind, my dear.  And _you_ have a very young mind.  Regardless, if your text does not provide sufficient assistance, I will gladly offer my services as a tutor.”

      “Yeah?  I guess you would have to be good at computers with all you have to do.  Whatever that is.  So sure, I’ll let you know.”

And another brilliant and vibrant smile.  What a joy that would be… another little thing to share… another bit of time for just the two of them.  Mycroft nodded his agreement and returned to retrieve his volumes from the very able individual who had already spirited them for his convenience.  It would not do appear like a sultan waited upon by his slaves with dear Gregory present.  Though carrying items of any sort for too long was not really the Mycroft Holmes way, no sacrifice was too large for his Detective Inspector.

A while later, with his own business duly sorted, Mycroft again sought out Lestrade, but this time could not go the final step to reveal himself, settling in to observe the man as he made a spirited dance of obtaining books, pacing or shifting foot to foot as he flipped through the pages, organized and reorganized his various piles and stacks… and he would never reveal until they were much further along in their relationship that Gregory Lestrade closely resembled one shall-not-be-named, so-called consulting detective when he brooded upon a questionable title or slung himself into a waiting chair or onto a padded bench to delve further into the material in his hands.

      “I do see you spying over there.”

Spying, how vulgar.

      “No, you are quite mistaken.”

      “Beg to differ.  And don’t say it’s not you, because there’s no one else in London fills out a suit like that.  Mistaken… like I’d mistake that…”

Oh, and another bitten-off sentence.  Truly tantalizing…

      “Then we agree to disagree.  Whoever you think me to be, I believe I shall take a short respite and read a bit while you continue to browse.  Do not mind me in the slightest.”

Such a rude noise.  He would have to practice in private and someday return the insult.  Much, Mycroft was sure, to Gregory’s amusement.  Taking a few moments to explore the general area, Mycroft fell upon a very interesting section of the shop and felt it was highly appropriate that he punish Lestrade for, as the Americans would say, blowing his cover.  A quick perusal put one book forth as a good candidate and it was removed from its resting place to join Mycroft on the well-upholstered bench pressed into a nook in the wall.

__________

That bastard!  As if he didn’t know he looked like a royal fortune leaning against that big pillar, all nonchalant and sexy as… sex.  And he’d positioned himself perfectly so he reflected off the mirror to the left of Lestrade’s current search area and he was getting a plentiful eyeful of sweet Mycroft goodness.  Man looked like something right out of a high-end catalog.  Or a spy novel… oh god, he looked suave, collected, gorgeous, sexy, deadly and if Lestrade didn’t put an end to Mycroft’s version of torture-the-pitiful-policeman there would be embarrassment in the air.  His.  From his trousers.  Actually, what was in his trousers.  Right… stopping the shenanigans…

With Mycroft duly exposed and showing not a single bit of chagrin for being an evil… what was the male version of temptress?  Tempter?  That sounded daft and not at all suggestive.  He’d need to find a thesaurus.  At least he was just going to be sitting around doing a little reading and not playing silly buggers anymore.  Really… not at all correct behavior when you’re around books.

Lestrade kept one eye on Mycroft as he continued to browse for his own books and watched the man mill about, finally returning with a large paperback in his hand.  If he concentrated he could almost make out the title… The Joy of… _What_!  That BASTARD!  And he was going to sit, sit!, right there and read it.  Where Lestrade could see and watch and… oh and how much of a bet was it… yep, turning the damn thing upside down and squinting.  Well, Gregory Lestrade was not a man to trifle with.  He’d been known to use psychological manipulation a time or two himself…

      “Wotcha reading?”

Said cheekily, sliding down next to Mycroft as sensuously as his dodgy knees would allow.

      “This?  Nothing of consequence.  Pay it no mind.”

That tiny smug grin, it was like an erotic green light that gave Lestrade’s body permission for many, many things… all of which could strip someone’s virginity from twenty paces away.

      “Oh come on… let’s have a look.”

Lestrade scooted so close to Mycroft that they were pressed hip to hip on the small bench.

      “Now you see, that’s no good.”

      “Really, it looks quite _good_ , as you say, to me.”

      “Nah, too much distraction.  You spend all your time wondering if your elbow should be here and if their legs should be there and what happens when that starts to slip and oh christ, the old wrestling injury! and please don’t let my back give out and choke my lover to death and all that sort of business.  Give me the simple things…”

Sliding even closer so that one well-formed ear was very near one manipulative mouth.

      “…don’t make it all fancy.  Let me just concentrate, really focus all my attention on the person I’m fucking.  How they sound.  How they smell.  Jesus… how they taste.  How every part of their skin tastes in my mouth.  Feel their body, inside and out… and let all of that that be the only thing in my head.  Let them be my whole world.  All my attention, all my desire dedicated to one simple thing… making them _scream_ …”

      “H… how interesting.”

Now that was a pretty little stutter.

      “I’d show you, but not really the right place, is it?  Can’t have you bent over one of those plush chairs, me taking you hard and fast, making you hold yourself tight so you can’t come until I decide _I’m_ ready.  But you know… there’s not a lot of people around and this section’s pretty private.  I could make you stand over there, near that mirror so you could watch while I had you unzip those expensive trousers and take yourself out for me.  Don’t worry, Mycroft… I’d make it good for you.  I’d stroke you just right, give you just right the little twist on the way up to make you want to beg me to go faster and harder but you couldn’t make any noise, could you?  You’d have to stay quiet and let me do what I wanted, make it last as long or end as soon as I liked.  And you could see it all, in fact, I’d make you watch.  Make you watch your cock and your face and my hands and when I finally let you come, you’d watch that, too.  And you’d come like a racehorse wouldn’t you?  I know how heavy you are down there, Mycroft, so I’m positive you’d coat my fingers completely.  And I’d make sure just a tiny drop or two got on those bespoke trousers and shiny shoes so everyone would be able to see what a good boy you’d been for me.  And you want to be my good boy don’t you?  Clean my fingers with your mouth because you know it’d make my so happy to see you do it.  And, of course, I’d kiss you when you were done.  Kiss you and taste your come on your tongue… too bad you’re so busy _reading_.  Oh well, I’ll leave you to it.”

And a quick hop up to stroll back to his messy piles of books, rent boy sway to his hips and only a tiny glance back, tip of his tongue wetting his upper lip.  Oh yeah, one destroyed Mycroft Holmes in his wake.

Life was good.

__________

If his erection wasn’t trying to strangle the life out of him, Mycroft might have been able to decide if he was proud of his Gregory or simply wanting him to enact every bit of his fantasy right there and right then.  Any surveillance footage could easily be tended to, and a copy kept for his home viewing pleasure.  What a worthy adversary… and what a mind-shattering partner he would be in Mycroft’s bed.  Or study.  Or kitchen.  Or vehicle.   The balcony was nice in the summer…

Mycroft patiently waited for his body to regain its equilibrium, which took far longer than expected since the more carnal portions of his mind insisted on orating Lestrade’s now-memorized speech on repeating loop, and only the image of Sherlock proclaiming those words to John was sufficiently horrifying to shrivel his dignity and allow him to stand and walk.  Replacing his extraordinarily ill-conceived attempt to discombobulate the Detective Inspector, the next move was towards the man himself, not hesitating to lean in and gently nip at the collar of Lestrade’s shirt, directly above the mark he had placed, knowing it glowed brightly just out of sight.

      “Well hello, Mycroft.  Fancy seeing you here.  So quickly.”

      “You have my white flag of surrender, Gregory.  I am defeated entirely.  But it was a glorious defeat and one I shall long savor.”

Now it was Lestrade’s turn to give a tiny smug grin and Mycroft’s already-hot blood boiled at the sight.

      “Just so you understand I’m not a pushover.  Got my own ways and means.”

And another coy look over his shoulder.

      “Can’t wait to get a better look at yours.”

A spectacular adversary…

      “At your will and at your leisure, my dear.  Now, have you made your decisions?  There is a lovely little bistro across the way and I would be delighted if you would join me for perhaps a small indulgence.  I will be leaving tomorrow night, so I would appreciate extending our time together this evening, if that is at all possible.”

Even without the silky purr of his voice or the very light trail of Mycroft’s fingers down his arm, Lestrade would have accepted the invitation.  Yet another fantastic night.  Fun, comfortable, stimulating, intellectually and otherwise… and yeah, their hands had stayed pretty damn much to themselves.  A few more nights like this and maybe… just maybe… he might let his hands start roaming.

      “I’d love it.  And maybe we can think of something to do when you get back.”

How much Mycroft enjoyed hearing his Gregory speak of a future…

      “Absolutely, my dear Gregory.  I can think of nothing that would please me more.”


	18. Cultural Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued thanks for support!

Lestrade caught a cab home from the bistro, despite Mycroft’s very thorough arguments as to why taking his car in the completely the opposite direction would actually facilitate his own journey home.  However, Mycroft refused to leave until what he considered a suitable cab presented itself and Lestrade was fairly certain that he would be followed by another unmarked black vehicle until he was deposited at this flat.

Now… that was a night.  In a thumbing of the nose to his stubbornness, he was going to call it a date.  The right kind of date, too.  Friendly, comfortable, enjoyable, flirtatious… they’d basically ordered a bunch of starters at the bistro and simply nibbled off of each other’s plates, sharing opinions and ideas about the little bites they were tasting.  Maybe no one else would have noticed how relaxed Mycroft was except him, but Lestrade was used to picking up the little cues that each Holmes brother flashed if you were watching closely.  And he _was_ watching closely.  But their next meeting… that was going to be something different and Lestrade wasn’t going to lie and say he wasn’t worried.  Mycroft wanted to take him out.  Apparently, it was the right time of year for opera and he had season tickets for a box.  A box at the opera.  In formal dress.  That meant black tie and watching his manners and what he said and how he spoke and the way he stood or held a glass or coughed or… he had no idea how to act at the opera!  This was where he could fail Mycroft miserably.  Make the man embarrassed to be seen with him in polite society.  Yeah, everything worked out peachy in the films, but this wasn’t a film, was it?

He’d almost said no, begged off because of some nonexistent prior commitment, but that would have been unfair to Mycroft.  That sort of thing was part of his world and he couldn’t go running the other direction every time Mycroft asked him to do something posh.  And he would _never_ make Mycroft feel like he had to give up those things for his sake.  So, first item on his agenda would be to find a tuxedo to rent that wouldn’t be so shameful and tatty that Mycroft would just order him to the dungeon in disappointment.  Next, he had to search the damned internet for information about what he could expect at the opera, figuring that what he learned from the Marx Brothers _A Night at the Opera_ wasn’t going to be very helpful.  And he should probably figure out the story for the damned performance itself, not that he had a prayer of saying or spelling the damn name right, so he didn’t look more like a peasant than he actually was.

At least he had some time, since it was over a week until the big night and Mycroft would be away for most of that.  And maybe it was a good thing that Mycroft said communications in his direction would likely not be forwarded, but that he would try and send a message now and then to Lestrade if possible.  Not that he should hold out much hope for that, either.  Despite Sherlock’s interruption, things had been good the past two times they’d gotten together and he didn’t want the fact that he was actually happy to kick his resolve to keep a bit of space between them into the bin.  Yeah, it was a very small bit of space, but it was _something_ and he needed that right now.  Not going to jump in like a lovesick fool.  Again.  No, this time he’d be sure.  Extra sure.  He’d be damned sure that this was what he wanted before taking things any further.

__________

      “Lestrade.”

      “Greg!  Hi!  It’s me.  Arthur!”

Mycroft had been gone for three days now and, although Lestrade was trying desperately not to admit it, he was missing the man and feeling a little lonely.  And now, a very nice tonic for those woes.

      “Arthur, my lad… good to hear from you.  All going well?”

      “It’s going super, thank you very much.  Skip is doing so well, although he has some days when I have to be a bit stern and remind him that he can’t yell and be mean to people just because he’s feeling a bit out of sorts and then he quiets right down and is brilliant again.  Or someone conks him with a magazine like that woman on the flight to Lisbon when he had a bit of a tangle involving his jacket and a green thread and he was already having a bit of a shaky day, but that wasn’t an excuse to tell the woman her hat looked like a fruit salad, which it did really, but she wasn’t happy and… well, at least she didn’t actually make him eat the fruit on her hat like she threatened, which even I know wouldn’t have been very good at all.”

      “Great to hear.  Couldn’t ask for better.  How about you though, Arthur.  How are _you_ doing?  It can be tough having to be strong for someone else, easily wear you down a little.”

      “Oh, yeah… that’s true.  Sometimes I feel a little tired or a bit lost when I’m trying to make sure Skip is doing well and I’m not sure if I’m doing it right because he really doesn’t want to talk about his _little problem_ at all, so I’m sort of flying blind.  Which is very scary, even though Skip says it’s not so bad so long as he’s got his instruments, but let me tell you, when you look out of the front of GERTI and it’s completely black or it’s a big nasty fog, there’s not much out there that’s scarier.  I mean there could be a mountain or building or hot air balloon or something for you to run into and you’d never know it!  But it’s ok, Greg.  Skip’s good about saying he’s sorry when he’s been a little ARRRGGGHHH and he does nice things for me, too.  Oh!  Like two nights ago, it was sort of warm and Skip borrowed a tent from one of the chaps at the airfield and he set it up outside behind his house and put our sleeping bags inside and we got to camp!  Really camp, not like we do when it’s on his floor in the attic.  And we had sandwiches and listened to songs on my phone and watched the stars… I’m not sure if there’s anyone in the world that’s as brilliant as Skip.  That should be a way to describe things – Skip Brilliant!  If something is amazingly super, it should be called Skip Brilliant! instead of just Brilliant!”

Lestrade sipped the throat-stripping coffee he’d picked up on the way to his current crime scene and let Arthur ramble awhile longer as he watched Anderson dribble his own coffee directly onto the poor victim lying on the ground.  Well, the crime-scene techs could puzzle that one out on their own.

      “And what about you, Greg?  How goes it solving crimes?”

      “Very well, actually.  May even solve this one before dinner so I can watch tonight’s match without worrying about being called back in to chase down some lead.”

      “The match?  That sounds wonderful!  I love sports… people running around having fun, people cheering and dancing and having fun.  There’s fun everywhere you look and what could be better than that?  And I guess you have to do something fun to make yourself happy since Mycroft’s not there.”

Lestrade had to chuckle at the drawn, out sing-song way Arthur said Mycroft’s name.

      “Yeah, well, man does what he has to, I guess.”

      “And that’s going well, right?  The, you know… B…O…Y…F…R…I…E…N…D thing?”

      “Reason you spelled that out?”

      “I don’t want to jinx it.”

      “Considerate of you.”

      “But, it’s all going well, right?  I mean… Mycroft sort of… well, he…”

      “I know he talked to you, Arthur.  It’s fine.  Actually, he was very happy with the advice you gave him and I was glad that you did.”

      “Really!  Brilliant!  Actually, Skip Brillliant!  I didn’t know what to do when he told me how silly he’d been, so I really tried to give him good ideas.  And… it worked?”

      “Definitely helped.  We’re not one hundred percent back to standard, but we’re getting there.  Had a couple of good nights recently, caught a film and went out to shop for books.  Good times, I’d say.”

      “And…”

      “Yes?”

      “Did he… did he kiss you?”

Ah, back to the school yard.

      “Oh yeah.  Nice kisses, too.”

Lestrade had no doubt that the noises he was hearing on the other end of the conversation was Arthur flinging himself into a complex and spirited dance routine.

      “And, you might want to know, we’re going out again when he gets back from this trip of his.  Fancy night out to the opera.”

      “The opera!  I’m not sure if I’d like that, what with it not being in English, which is ok for a quick song on the radio but I think my head would start to hurt not understanding anything for a couple of hours so I couldn’t even begin to sing along.  But it _is_ supposed to be very fancy, so that could make up for it, because it would be brilliant to get to put on fancy clothes and pretend to be posh.”

Pretend… that _was_ the right word.

      “You’ll take lots of photos, right?  You and Mycroft and YouAndMycroft and the opera and whatever else you find to take photos of… I’ll be waiting and have a folder already made on my phone for them.  Oh, and even though it’s not necessarily nice, but if you want, maybe you can record a little bit of it, so I can hear what it sounded like and listen to that while I’m looking at the photos.  It would almost be like I was there, too.  But without being there at all.”

Maybe not the opera, but Lestrade thought it would be a wild night if he could get Arthur out for a musical.  One of the big, elaborate ones with lots of costumes and amazing sets.  Sung in English.  He’d have to talk to Mycroft and see if he could find tickets to something they could take the lad to one day.

      “I’ll take lots of photos and, if I can’t record the performance, I bet Mycroft can find out how to let you listen to it online somehow.  He says he’s good at computers, so that should be a snap of his fingers.”

      “Oh he is!  He can do amazing things.  Just between you and me, Mycroft is the closest thing in the world to a real wizard and you’re incredibly lucky because you have a _wizard_ as a boyfriend.  He’s lucky too because you’re a policeman, which is brilliant, _and_ you can arrest people.  Wizards can’t do that.  But, I do rather suspect that _Mycroft_ can somehow.  He might actually be a wizard that has policeman powers, too.  Wow… I’m not sure there’s a way you can get any luckier, Greg.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind, I promise.”

And there went Anderson actually tripping over the victim and now laying there like a second dead body.  Time to wave his magic policeman wand and turn this into a professional crime scene.

      “Look lad, I’m at work right now, but you can call me later at home.  Sound good?”

      “Sounds great!  Can we… can I call you and put my telly on the match and then we watch the match together?”

That would be novel.  And a hell of a fun thing.

      “Sure, I’d say that’s a grand plan.  Later then, Arthur.”

      “Later alligator.  Hah!  I love that expression, though it’s really ‘see you later, alligator’ but I think it’s ok a little shorter.  Bye Greg!”

      “Goodbye, Arthur.  Have a brilliant day.”

__________

Lestrade wondered if Mycroft had instructed Arthur to keep him entertained or if the boy thought of it on his own.  On top of watching the match together over the phone, he’d called Lestrade to chat during three day’s breakfasts, coaxed Lestrade into watching two if his favorite programs to discuss later, sent a barrage of photos and drawings, including many from his and Martin’s time together in London that had Mycroft as a key figure in the picture, talked Lestrade through making the little origami cat now sitting on his desk and a host of other little things that kept Lestrade occupied and engaged.  It was nice, really nice to have a connection with someone.

And, of course, there was the 221B contingent.  John had demanded the entire story of the book-buying trip and kept a steady flow of texts and calls coming to keep Lestrade focused on things other than the currently on-hold status of his relationship.  Even Sherlock was being… stable… for a change.  Although he did seem to have a sudden fondness for statistics about spousal abuse, infidelity and murders committed by significant others.  The only line of communication not open was the one to Mycroft himself.  But he’d been warned about that, so didn’t take it to heart.  Lestrade was absolutely certain that he would never know the depths of Mycroft’s responsibilities or the details of his work and that was something he could accept.  Actually, it was a little exciting.  Nothing wrong with a little mystery in a relationship.  It was rather odd, though, that John knew Mycroft had returned to London before he did.

      “You didn’t know?”

      “No, haven’t heard a word since he left, but he told me that was probably going to be the case, so I didn’t think anything of it.”

      “Well, it might be he’s still officially ‘at work.’  I only know he’s back because he popped round while I was out and left a file for Sherlock and a note telling him to give it a look over.  For all I know he’s back in Timbuktu or wherever he’s been hiding out by now.”

True, definitely a possibility.  Still, you’d think the man would have at least called.

      “Yeah, I guess.  I can see him having to focus completely on whatever it is he’s up to and not having any brain left for other stuff like a check-in.”

      “It’s ok to be miffed at him, Greg.  It doesn’t take that much brain power to send a quick text.”

No, it really didn’t.  But he wasn’t going to be a baby about it.

      “Nah, it’s alright.  Besides we have our big night out coming up, don’t we… care to help a social cripple find something nice to rent for the occasion?”

      “Oh, that sounds like lots of fun.  Maybe afterwards we can braid each other’s hair.”

      “Come on, John… help me out.  Mycroft bloody Holmes is escorting me to the opera and I can’t show up wearing my go-to-funeral suit.  I’ve got to have a tux and it has to be a nice one or they’ll kick me out for being a disgrace to opera or something.”

      ”Oh fine.  Let me take time out of my busy schedule…”

      “You mean your ‘sitting around drinking tea and mooning over Sherlock time.’ ”

      “Semantics.  Meet you say, in half an hour?”

      “Today?”

      “You’re off for the afternoon and I haven’t had lunch or a pint, both of which you will be gladly providing me for being such a good mate and tossing in to help you out.”

      “A bought-and-paid-for friendship… stuff that built the Empire.  Half an hour?”

      “I’m heading out right now.  Have my hair ribbons ready.  I want blue.”

__________

Despite John’s protestations, he was actually keen on seeing what existed on the formal wear market for poor part-time physicians who would like to be able to take his gorgeous and stylish partner to a black-tie affair if the opportunity arose.  After much searching and feeling very like the poor cousins come to dinner, John and Lestrade finally found an acceptable tuxedo the DI could afford to rent and put reservation deposit down.

      “There, happy now?  You’ll look lovely in the pictures I’m sure you’re going to send to Arthur.”

      “He’s already sent a list of poses he wants; I think he’ll be doing a scrapbook.”

      “You mean adding to a scrapbook.  He’s already got one going for me and Sherlock, Mycroft, and now you and Mycroft, which will get blended with Mycroft’s personal vanity book once Arthur gets official word of boyfriendedness.”

      “This Martin, he _is_ good enough for Arthur, isn’t he?”

      “No worries.  And Arthur loves him fiercely.  They’re a great match.  Things keep going as they are with Mycroft and you’ll be meeting him soon, I suspect.”

      “Bare minimum, it’ll be good to put a face to the name.”

      “You’ve actually already done that.”

      “What?”

      “Don’t worry, you’ll see.”

__________

By the morning of their supposed opera night, Lestrade was losing what little bit of confidence he had mustered and biting back the frustration of being, again, dangling at the end of Mycroft’s strings.  And he would lose his deposit money for the tuxedo, which could have been used to help drink away his sorrows.

By afternoon, the frustration had turned to anger, mostly turned inward, but sour and caustic nonetheless.  So black was his mood growing that he nearly ignored the text he received, since it would likely be from Sherlock and that was not going to bring him any joy.

_Drinks and appetizers at 7:00? – MH_

Oh. Apparently Mycroft was still alive.  How wonderful.  And expecting him to just pick up and go out as planned. And, again, without any form of apology for the lack of contact.

_Wasn’t sure we were still going. – GL_

_I have been greatly looking forward to it. – MH_

Script rewrite – I’m so sorry, Gregory, but I have been so busy lately that I had barely a moment to breathe.  Please forgive me and agree to be my companion for the evening.  Prat.

_Yeah, I guess seven is fine – GL_

_Excellent.  I will arrive at 6:30 pm – MH_

Didn’t he even notice the lackluster agreement?  This was certainly not Skip Brilliant!.  But, Lestrade considered himself the better man and didn’t send back the ‘Whatever’ as a closing.  But he would allow himself a bit of petulant-teenager sulking that his special evening was already on uncertain ground.  And he had to race out and get his tux, get cleaned up… all of which he’d mentally prepared himself _not_ to have to do tonight so he now felt rushed and rather frantic.  Time for a calming influence.

_Berk just texted.  Alive and still wants to go out – GL_

_Typical Holmes behavior.  Expect you to drop everything and hop to it – JW_

_Not one bit of apology, either – GL_

_Arse.  Bastardy bastard of an arse – JW_

_You could say shove it, you know – JW_

_Yeah, but I sort of want to go – GL_

_May not ever get a chance again – GL_

_I’ll take you, don’t worry – JW_

_John, can we have boyfriendedness? – GL_

_I’ll ask Sherlock.  I doubt he’ll mind as long as it doesn’t interrupt anything he wants – JW_

_When he wants it – JW_

_Ok, let me know what he says.  Guess I have to go tonight, just to be safe though – GL_

_You’ll have fun.  Ignore Mycroft if you have to – JW_

_Or shop for an upgraded model.  Lots of posh will be floating about – JW_

_Good idea.  Christ, gotta go get my tux – GL_

_Have a good time, Greg – JW_

_Do my best – JW_

__________

Why anyone would want to dress up like a penguin, and an uncomfortable penguin at that, would remain a puzzle Lestrade was happy never to try to solve.  Tux and tie and shoes, which he had to race out and get polish for since they looked as dull as dishwater… at least he didn’t have to worry about hair and makeup!  Quick shave and comb and that part was done.  Double-check the teeth for stray lunch and then it was wait.  Stand and wait.  Couldn’t sit and wait because that’d wrinkle the trousers and he wanted Mycroft to get an eyeful of unwrinkled splendor when he walked in so he would know just what he’d been missing on his little business trip.

Of course, that bluster vanished when Lestrade heard the soft knock and began to fret that he looked like a kid playing dress up and Dad had come home.  Must be composed.  Must be nonchalant.  Must be… Mycroft.

      “Oh Mycroft, good to see you.”

      “Gregory, you are a vision.  A true vision.  Simply exquisite.”

Ok, that made him feel a little better.

      “Thanks.  You look nice, too.  Very handsome in that tuxedo.”

Which was almost completely true.  Mycroft looked like a billion pounds, but what kept him from looking like a billion and an half was the fatigue at the corners of his eyes.  Lestrade felt a tiny twinge of guilt flare in his chest.  The man _had_ been busy and, most likely, preoccupied…

      “Shall we, my dear?  I took the liberty of securing us a very nice table at a lovely little restaurant that serves the best tapas in the city.  I hope that is agreeable?”

      “Sounds wonderful.  Lead the way.”

And they’d probably have a stock of good wine to go with them, which Lestarde was starting to feel he very much needed.  Mycroft really did look nice in his tuxedo.  Deliciously nice.

__________

And yeah, the wine was good.  _Very_ good and that had helped take more of the edge of Lestrade’s nerves, frustrations, hurt feelings and other nonsense so that he could simply relax and enjoy the rest of the evening.  The food was amazing so he at least didn’t have any worries about his stomach rumbling and a nice gentleman stopped by Mycroft’s box on occasion to deliver champagne while they lounged in very comfortable seats and watched the performance.  Maybe he wasn’t born to luxury, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy it if he had the chance.

And the opera wasn’t as bad as he’d feared.  The music wasn’t torturous, the stage dressing was well done and visually stimulating and, even though he didn’t understand one word the performers sang, he had a translator at his side, whispering the basics of the dialogue as it went along.  But, even with all of that support, Lestrade was relieved when the intermission arrived.  He needed a break and a chance to stretch his legs.  Luckily, Mycroft felt the same way and they exited their box to mill about with other patrons, indulging in more champagne and brief conversations with people Mycroft seemed to know.  Actually Mycroft seemed to know everyone and everyone knew him, it was just that few seemed privileged enough to be able to approach him to chat and Lestrade was actually happy for that.  As it was, he was far out of his depth and having a very difficult time keeping up with the talk of world government and economy, the people and events of society.  Luckily, he could smile and nod with the best of them.

      “Mycroft!  Fancy seeing you here.  And looking very well, I might add.”

Lestrade turned to find the source of the person nearly purring a greeting to his… person sharing a box with him… and suddenly wished he hadn’t.  The man standing slightly to his right was exactly the sort of person he didn’t want to see.  Tall and a good bit younger than he was, wearing a tux that probably cost about the same as Mycroft’s.  Thick hair that was so dark it looked black and, frankly, the definition of gorgeous.  Posh gorgeous, too with refined features and an intelligent gleam in the eye to boot.  And he was nearly leering at his… fellow he shared tapas with.

      “Edgar… my heavens, I had no idea you had plans to be in London.  At least not so soon.  How delightful to see you.”

And let me present my… person who can melt my brain with erotic imagery.

      “Are you enjoying the performance?  I must say I was not anticipating a world-class showing due to the youth of the soprano, but she is acquitting herself quite well.”

Missed something there, Mycroft.

      “So true.  Of course, this holds no candle to the performance we enjoyed in Milan.”

 _We_ … bugger was getting a little plural for Lestrade’s taste.

      “Oh gracious no, but Edgar… our little opera house is no La Scala.”

      “There is that.  And do you know… I still have the cufflinks you gave me to wear that night.  I take them out only for the most special of occasions.”

Cufflinks?

      “I am quite flattered.  Such a small token of our first opera together.

Why did wine and tapas not sound as important as cufflinks?  Not that he would have accepted them.  Not at all.  Maybe.

      “The first, though not the best.  Do you recall that night in Paris…”

      “HI THERE!  I’m Greg!  Gregory Lestrade.  Sounds like you two know each other.”

At least Mycroft had the good sense to look chagrined by his atrocious manners.  Edgar simply looked amused.

      “I do apologize Gregory, I was simply caught by surprise.  Gregory Lestrade, this is Edgar Peterson, one of our most innovative entrepreneurs.”

And I’m a Detective Inspector with a damn good track record but don’t go bothering to mention it.

      “I also apologize Mr. Lestrade.  I, too, was surprised to see Mycroft out this evening.  It has been awhile since we were… together.  At a social event, I mean.  But do you know, Mycroft, that there is an after-party this evening that I am sure will be splendid.  You simply must come.  I am certain that you will enjoy yourself immensely.”

Now the bastard was far too singular for Lestrade’s liking.  No matter what this Edgar stick-up-the-bum Peterson did it was the wrong thing.  Sign of character, that was.  Oily, snake-like character.

      “Oh, I doubt that will be possible.  I do have a great deal to accomplish tomorrow and the rising sun waits for no man.”

And you have a chap in a rented tux next to you who agreed to this circus just to make you happy that doesn’t seem to be invited.

      “Well, if you change your mind, I’ll text you the information.  Same number, I presume.”

      “Of course.  It has been good to see you, Edgar.  I hope we run into each other again soon.”

No you don’t.  Have you gone insane?  Man’s a creepy git that probably has a police file an inch thick.  Even if he is rich and gorgeous and cultured and all sorts of things…

      “As do I, Mycroft.  As do I.  Oh, there’s the signal and I must rejoin my own guests.  Wonderful to see you, Mycroft.  Gary, have a nice evening, as well.”

Someone was going to learn the wrath of parking enforcement and traffic control.

      “Yeah, you too.”

Ok Mycroft, here’s your cue.

      “Shall we return to our seats?”

And you blow it.  Sherlock may actually be the more socially-aware of the family.  God help us all.

      “Sure you don’t want to track down your chum there and continue that bit of jollying around.  Ol’ Gary here’ll be just fine all by himself.”

Mycroft looked like he’d been slapped, but that shock quickly morphed into a very wicked smile that made Lestrade’s toes start to curl.

      “Gregory… are you jealous?”

      “No!  Me?  Nah… no!  Don’t talk nonsense.”

And stop smiling.  And do not wrap that arm around me or… there will be no kissing at the opera, even if it is on the cheek.

      “The vibrant shade of red you are turning, my dear, tells a different tale.  Do not worry, Gregory.  Edgar is exactly what he appears and nothing more.”

      “Rich, privileged and totally fuckable?”

The low chuckle in his ear was not helping with his toe-curling problem.

      “Exactly.  And not a single element more.  The man has no substance, no worth beyond the superficial.  His utility is quite limited and that makes him, ultimately, pitiable.”

It was hard to pity a man who was probably leaving this evening in a Bentley.

      “Well, none of my business anyway.”

      “Oh but it is very much your business and it was remiss of me to allow Edgar to have his little moment.  It is generally easier to manage the man if one simply lets him flutter his feathers, then be on his way.  Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

Where in the hell did Mycroft Holmes learn to give puppy-dog eyes?

      “I suppose.  If I don’t, who’ll tell me what happens in the second half of this thing?”

      “I am honored to be of service.  And humbled to earn your forgiveness.  Now, let us not miss a moment of ‘this thing.’  I would hate for you to feel cheated in your experience.”

With another tiny peck to his cheek, Mycroft moved his hand to the small of Lestrade’s back and guided him back to their private box.  Where champagne waited and the lights were just beginning to dim.

__________

Lestrade found the second half of the performance as palatable as the first and decided that if he was asked to accompany Mycroft again, he wouldn’t mind saying yes.  And, in addition to providing a narrative for the story, Mycroft kept a hand resting on Lestrade’s knee, idly rubbing and making lazy circles with his fingers.  The only odd thing was that Mycroft seemed to have a greater interest in the other patrons than in the first half.  Lestrade hadn’t noticed Mycroft surveying the surrounding boxes before, but he was sure he caught Mycroft’s eyes scanning the crowd several times before the end of the opera.  It was a difference, but Lestrade realized that he must be checking to see if there were other old friends in attendance.  Wouldn’t that just be the crowning jewel of his day?

Mycroft kept Lestrade in their box for a few minutes after the performance ended to allow the crowd to thin.

      “Well, my dear, what is your verdict?”

      “I liked it.  I wasn’t sure going in, but I can honestly say that I had a good time.  Thanks for bringing me.”

      “I am very pleased to hear it.  Perhaps you will agree to attend with me again in the future.”

      “Yeah, I’d do that.  No question about it.”

This smile wasn’t wicked, this was simply happy and Lestrade felt more of his insecurities over recent events slide away.

      “Then it is decided.  Now, I believe we can exit without being trampled by the egress-directed migration of the overdressed.”

Both men rose and Lestrade took a step to leave, only to find his hand clasped and a gentle pull drawing him back and towards Mycroft, who used his free hand to cup Lestrade’s cheek and move in to initiate a long and tender kiss that spread a gentle warmth through every part of the Detective Inspector’s body.  Not a sexual fire, but rather a comfortable heat like lying under a thick and well-loved blanket on a cold night.  And that was every bit as nice.

__________

Mycroft had a table and a light meal waiting at a darkened and quiet restaurant and the men took the opportunity to unwind and reminisce about their evening.  It was with a sharp regret that Lestrade swallowed the last bite of his dessert and made himself ready for the ride back to his flat.  Back to reality.  Little Cinderfella turns back into a pumpkin in another half-hour or so.  But, if he played his cards right, he might get turned into a Prince again someday.  Maybe he’d hate living like this all the time, but visiting the other side of the fence now and then wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

A small glass of Mycroft’s magnificent scotch on the ride back was a final bright spot to his evening and Lestrade soaked in Mycroft’s easy laugh as they turned their conversation to matters of what might be termed _family_ and stories were shared that made Lestrade want more than anything to be in a position to share stories like these for… well, ever.   And maybe, help make new stories for the others to share.

Neither man noticed the car come to a halt and the driver had to tap the glass to alert Mycroft that they had reached their destination.

      “Alas, my dear Gregory, our evening has come to an end.  The tragedy of this event should inspire many a dirge for years to come.”

      “Make sure they spell my name right for the royalty check.”

      “I shall ensure your compensation is both fair and suitable.”

Lestrade liked the sound of that very much.

      “Good to know I can count on you.  And Mycroft…. thanks.  Really.  Thanks so much for tonight.  It was great.  And… I don’t know if you’d want to, but I’m planning on trying out a few recipes from that new cookbook I bought and I’d appreciate an extra pair of tastebuds around for criticism.  If you’ve got time one evening here soon, I’d love to cook for you.”

Now, if that wasn’t putting his all on the line.  Asking a man that ate at the finest restaurants in the world on a regular basis to his flat for a meal cooked in cheap pans and served on chipped plates.

      “I have no words, Gregory… I would be absolutely delighted.  I shall study my schedule and ascertain an appropriate day.  Thank you for this, my dear.  There is no greater gift than that of a fine meal.”

      “Except good conversation.”

      “Touché.  You shall, I hope, enjoy a restful sleep.”

      “You too, Mycroft.  Don’t forget your kiss goodnight, though.”

And there was that wicked smile again.  And those wicked lips.  And that wicked tongue and wicked hands…  It was a rumpled and slightly dizzy Lestrade that finally poured himself out of the vehicle and out onto the sidewalk.  Fortunately for his ego, Mycroft looked exactly as disreputable.

      “Thanks again, Mycroft.  Don’t forget about dinner, ok?”

      “Of course not, my dear.  I…”

The familiar buzz of a received text interrupted Mycroft’s words and Lestrade watched as he checked his phone and smirked at what he read.

      “Anything wrong?”

      “Do not let it concern you, Gregory.  It is nothing of interest.  And I shall secure the date of our culinary adventure at my first opportunity.  Now, I must bid you goodnight, my dear.  An early morning awaits.”

      “Same here.  Sleep tight.”

Lestrade closed the door to the car and stood a moment to watch it pull away, noticing the motion of the driver’s head, as if listening to a set of instructions, before the vehicle drove off into the darkness.  Seemed like Mycroft had matters to attend to.  Poor bastard probably wouldn’t get a wink of sleep…


	19. A Prelude to Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued and sincere thanks for all of those who let me know their thoughts on this piece and leave such encouraging words. A short chapter this time, but cold medicine is much better for napping than writing...

_Thanks again for last night.  It was really something special – GL_

Lestrade wondered if he’d gotten more than an hour’s worth of sleep last night.  He’d lay awake for what seemed like eternity replaying the evening in his mind.  It had been, well, it was silly to say magical, but it _had_ been.  Magic wasn’t something that happened in an average man’s life and last night wasn’t something that had ever happened in his.

**Five Hours Later**

_Dropping off my tux.  Don’t forget about dinner.  Let me know when’s good for you – GL_

As nice as it was to get that costume out of his fingers, there was also a wash of sadness seeing it go.  Luckily, he’d taken a shameful amount of pictures, all appropriately forwarded to Arthur for curating.

**Six Hours Later**

_Arthur gushed over photos.  Expect a detailed critique of each one soon – GL_

And Arthur _had_ gushed.  Lestrade got a nice break from his paperwork telling the story of their opera trip and going photo by photo listening to Arthur’s very excited opinion about what he was seeing.  And he got the confirmation he expected that his night was actually an example of magic since, of course, Mycroft was involved, so it should naturally follow that their dates would be filled to the top with magic.

**Eight Hours Later**

Goodnight, Mycroft.  Wherever you are…

__________

Eggs, toast and tea.  Good solid way to start the day.  Common food for a common man.  With a severed foot half embedded in concrete waiting for him to wipe up the last bit of egg off of his plate.

Two hours after his digestion began he was still standing at the construction site waiting for the foot and surrounding matrix to be removed from the rest of the future car park area.

      “That you are alive is a testament to the thickness of the lining of your stomach.”

      “Wondered when you’d show up.  Called Molly to give her a head’s up a good 45 minutes ago.”

      “John has established a rule that if I visit the morgue, I must devote, at minimum, fifteen percent of my minutes that should be focused on work to speaking collegially with Molly.  It is to engender good will, which is nonsensical since Molly will accommodate me whether or not she is feeling particularly generous towards me or not.”

      “And if you fail to follow John’s rule?”

      “I will not be given tea for a fortnight.”

      “Is that a euphemism?”

      “Is what a euphemism?”

      “Nothing.  Pay me no attention.  Bit off my game.”

      “It is understandable.  You were in proximity to my brother for an extended period of time, compounded by the forced endurance of a vastly overrated 18th-century example of controlled shrieking.”

      “Not an opera fan?”

      “Actually, I enjoy a quality composition that is properly performed.  Neither of which is the case for any of the choices for this season.  I weep for the decline in musical culture in this country.”

      “Looks like John won’t need that tux he was eyeing, I guess.  Shame… he was even willing to take _me_ to the opera so he could dress up nice and mill around with the huggers of cultural decline.”

Sherlock was actually cute as he pictured John in a crisp tuxedo.  Arthur was right… boy did have a _like_ like smile…

      “John _would_ cut a very striking figure in formal dress.”

      “Oh yeah.  And if you get one of those boxes, there’s plenty of room… nice dark room… for a little romance if the singing doesn’t meet your standards.”

      “Hmmm… Mycroft uses his box infrequently and he is easy to distract with madeleines if he tries to disrupt my evening.”

      “Never seen him swoon over sweets, Sherlock.”

      “Sexual lust compromises eyesight.”

      “Must be why John’s still happy to shag you.”

      “You have become a cruel man, Lestrade.  I blame Mycroft.”

      “Then everything’s status quo.  Consistency’s not always a bad thing… except with you.”

      “John wanted you to join us for an evening in the coming week, but I am declining to extend the invitation.”

      “I won’t let you stand in the way of John and my boyfriendedness, so I’ll show up whenever sweet, sweet John wants me to.”

      “Further proof of your mental diminishment due to your association with Mycroft.  Soon the extent of your abilities will be drooling and urination.”

      “I’ll stock up on nappies and bibs.  Now, looks like the concrete cutter’s here so we should be moving our tiny victim to the morgue; more time for you to make John proud.  You should get Molly a nice cup of tea on the way.  She might let you assist with the… foottopsy… if you make her happy enough.”

      “A severed foot is not sufficiently interesting to warrant the purchase of tea.”

      “Ah… then I won’t mention the matching arm we found waving at us from the top of a brick stack.  I think there may be an unusual tattoo involved, as well.”

Once you understood Sherlock, he was an easy mark.

      “Oh very well.  If I do not take things in hand, this matter will never find resolution.  A cup of tea is a small price to pay for the enactment of justice.”

      “Good lad.  Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”

Sherlock spun and stalked towards the car Lestrade had indicated, stopping a few steps away to turn back and stare at the Detective Inspector.

      “He has not harmed you, has he?”

There was a seriousness to Sherlock’s question that made Lestrade uneasy.

      “No, Sherlock.  He hasn’t.”

The younger man nodded slightly, then pressed his lips tightly and studied Lestrade for a long moment.

      “I will… I will make myself available to you for conversation if he does.”

The transparent sincerity of Sherlock’s offer and what it meant for the boy to _make_ the offer settled deeply into Lestrade’s heart, carving out what would be a permanent home in his chest.

      “I’ll make you a promise to take you up on that if I have to.  Thank you, Sherlock.  It means a lot to me that you care.”

Something real and powerful flared in the boy’s eyes before his standard disinterested mask slipped back into place.

      “Standing here will not facilitate your investigation.”

It had not been that many years that Lestrade had wondered if Sherlock would ever find his way through the darkness and if he and Mycroft were the only two people in the world who cared if he did or not.  It was worth all of those worries and fears to see the young man standing proud, on his own two feet and able to _feel_.

      “You’re right.  So why’s your arse not in the car?”

      “You have yet to open the door.”

      “I’m not a chauffeur.  Don’t have the right hat.”

      “I will have Arthur rectify that at the earliest opportunity.”

__________

_Not sure why Sherlock has expertise in tattoos.  Need to ask John what’s under the coat – GL_

Not one word from Mycroft since their night out and Lestrade was getting a little concerned.  Ok, maybe not concerned.  Worried… that was a better word.  Or… no, he wasn’t going to say insecure.  He’d thought he’d made at least an acceptable showing at the opera, but what if he was wrong.  What if he wasn’t good enough as an arm ornament while they were hobnobbing with the other patrons?  Actually, it was a sure thing that he wasn’t.  Tatty old man in a rented tux, not really on par with the bespoke crowd.

Lestrade opened a bottle of ale and settled himself on his inexpensive and curry-stained sofa, scanning the channels for something to take his mind off of the little-girl tantrum his brain was deciding to throw.  Three beers and a carton of leftover fried-rice later, the Detective Inspector settled between his bought-on-discount sheets and set his alarm.  He very forcefully told himself that he checked his texts and messages for work-related items, not for any replies by a certain Holmes brother.  This was ridiculous.  He was a grown man with middle-age starting to grow in his rear-view mirror and he was behaving like a child.  Anyway, he was the one who had wanted some space and time, wasn’t he?  And now he was complaining that Mycroft was giving him what he asked for.  Not that kissing easily fell under either the space or time category.  Or filthy talk or Mycroft’s ‘my dear’s’ or anything like that.  Not that any of it mattered.  Who knew if Mycroft would ever make contact with him again… yeah, he was having a snit.  Luckily, no one was here in bed with him to notice it.  Wait… that didn’t sound right…

__________

Eggs, toast and tea.  Good solid way to start the day.  Common food for a common man.  Same as every day.  Maybe tomorrow he’d do a bit of cereal or go wild and heat up leftover take-away for a change of pace.  And what was on his agenda?  Oh yeah… paper.  Lots of paper.  Mountains of it.  How comforting to know that he would make a difference in the world today by reviewing and signing off on reams of paper.  At least it looked like the sun might shine today, not that he’d see much of it cloistered in his office, tethered to his chair with a pile of paper blocking his door and escape route.  Maybe he could distract the paper dragon with a stapler and make a dash for a sandwich for lunch out in the sunshine.

And any hope that a knight in shining armor had slain his personal dragon overnight evaporated when he arrived and saw what remained of his desk laid low by the weight of pressed pulp and ink.  Same as every day.  This at least he knew how to approach.  Love… _like_ … at his age, not so much.  Stupid, pompous Mycroft… Lestrade hope he was currently choking on an antique, engraved silver spoon.

__________

Luckily, the dragon took an afternoon nap and Lestrade was able to sneak out to find a decent cup of tea and take in a few lingering rays of sunlight.

_Would tomorrow night be acceptable? – MH_

Lestrade stared at his phone and wondered if he just made a rude gesture into the air would Mycroft see it and get the picture.

_Acceptable for what? – GL_

Lestrade wished there some emoticon for ‘you bastard’ he could append to the end of his message.

_For your cooking experiment – MH_

Ode to joy.  Just what he wanted to do.  Slave away in the kitchen for a man who couldn’t bother to… poise.  Poise, calm, nonchalance…

_Oh.  Still up for that? – GL_

There.  That reeked of nonchalance.

_Any chance for time with you is a blessing – MH_

He probably had that written out beforehand.  Probably had an entire list of things to say to take the wind out of his sails.  Wanker.

_I guess I can do that – GL_

Brilliant nonchalance.  He might even say Skip Brilliant!.

_I would be most honored.  Shall we say 8:00? – MH_

So, by tomorrow he had to decide what to make, go shopping, clean the house, make sure he had pots/pans to do what he had to do, clean the house… yeah, that should be on his list twice… actually do the cooking and there should really have been a trial run first, decide what to wear… was this some form of punishment for failing the opera test?

_That should work- GL_

Should.  Not a definitive word.  If it all went to hell, he could fall back on the uncertainty of ‘should.’

_Excellent.  I am very eager for this, Gregory – MH_

Well that made one of them.

_I shall endeavor to repay you for these past days of quiet – MH_

Oh hell… why did he always have to say the right thing?

_That sounds promising.  See you tomorrow – GL_

_That you will, my dear.  Farewell – MH_

Ok… ok ok ok… Still here for a few hours then… fuck it, who needs sleep?  No… he needed sleep.  Couldn’t greet Mycroft looking like an animated corpse.  Unless he used some of that concealer blokes put on to cover up a black eye.  Bad idea… it’d probably melt off while he cooked then he’d really look like a zombie, melting flesh and all.  Did zombies have melting flesh or was that some other character?  Ok… ok ok ok… work like a good public servant.  Decide on menu.  Shop.  Clean.  Sleep.  Work.  Pretend caught case of the Black Death and go home early.  Cook.  Clean again.  Clean _self_.  Cook.  Clean self again, if necessary.  Christ… dessert!  Ok, buy dessert and not be ashamed since name is not Escoffier.  And get good tea.  Maybe coffee.  Get both.  And good wine.  Crap… how good a wine could he get on his wage?  Maybe he could hide the label…

Lestrade’s remaining hours of work were primarily spent surreptitiously looking at recipe sites online, consoling himself that he at least periodically shuffled some papers and cleared a few things off his desk.  When he thought someone was looking.  Tomorrow needed to go well.  Certain things he couldn’t change, like the hole he lived in, but he could make it up with good food and company.  There was a day he considered himself a very good cook and that young and brash version of himself needed to give him a kick in the shins and a refresher course on how to navigate a kitchen so well that people wanted to trade him food for sex.  Not that that had happened.  More than once.  Or twice.  But that was over twenty years ago so the statute of limitations for being slutty had long ago expired.  But maybe that kid could also give him some reminders on what to do if he decided that getting a little slutty was something he wanted with the man in the well-tailored suit.  Not that he was thinking like that right now.  Not at all.  Maybe.


	20. When Surrounded by Reflections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every comment, every kudo is something for which I give thanks and take to heart...

Fucking filo dough.  Lestrade didn’t remember it being this hard to work with the sodding stuff.  And he’d gotten it fresh too!  Nice little shop with excellent cheese and filo and the ripest, reddest tomatoes he’d seen in a long time.  Then it was the fishmonger for that day’s cod and the sweetest prawns and mussels they had.  Next, it was one bakery for several crusty baguettes and another for a beautiful apple tarte that would be amazing with whipped cream, which he was almost positive he remembered how to do properly.  One final stop for vegetables and one final final stop for wine, both for drinking and for cooking.  Roasted vegetables in filo along with bread and cheese to start, the bouillabaisse he used to be famous for with the young and poor crowd, along with toasty garlic croutons and a warm apple tarte with fresh whipped cream for dessert.  It sounded… good.  Really good.  Not fancy, but flavorful and hearty.  And solid peasant food didn’t mind if it was served in old bowls and on wooden cutting boards.

And the flat looked immaculate.  Well, it was at least clean and didn’t smell like a foot disease.  The only thing he wished was that he could have found the time to get something new to wear.  All of his off-duty clothes had seen the rocks by the river more times that was good for them, but he’d pulled together an outfit that wasn’t the worst offense to fashion he’d ever committed.  He’d always looked good in blue, so a deep blue shirt, tight enough to hint at a respectable body underneath, but loose enough to hide the fact that respectable could be interpreted quite broadly at his age.  Khaki slacks and shoes he could lose easily.  No socks.  It wasn’t the crap he’d wear at home alone, but it also didn’t look like he was trying too hard.  That’s the balance he wanted struck.  Ready to enjoy things, but not going to make his life revolve around it.  Oh crap, had to chill the whisk or his cream wouldn't whip…

**7:00 pm**

      “Greg, why in the hell are you calling me when you’re supposed to be getting ready for your big night?”

      “I _am_ ready, John.  I’ve been dressed for oh… an hour now, and everything’s where it needs to be in the kitchen and the house is clean and…”

      “A little eager?”

      “Not the term I’d use.”

      “Scared?  Quaky.  Horny?”

      “Is there a word that means all three?”

      “Well, I can think of _one_.  Starts with an L, ends with an E.  Couple more letters in between if memory serves.”

      “That is an egregious case of assuming facts not in evidence.  Absolutely will not stand up in court.”

      “Oh… well speaking of standing up, if you need a prescription for those handy little blue pills, I’m your man.”

      “Pish and tosh… all’s fine in that department, thank you very much.  Says hello every morning, right on schedule.”

      “Good, then Mycroft will have something to play with when he wakes up.”

      “You’re a filthy man, John Watson.  Kiss your mother with that mouth?”

      “No, but I can tell you what I _do_ kiss with this mouth if you’d like?”

      “That’s put me right off my dinner.”

      “We love hand-me-down meals.”

      “You’re not getting my sexually-tainted food.”

      “Well, there goes my plans for dinner.  Guess its tea and take-away yet again.  What have I lost out on eating anyway?  Same thing we talked about when you called last night in a panic?”

      “A highly trained member of law enforcement does not panic.  We too-rapidly process the details of a situation and the possible alternatives and are momentarily overcome by the force of our own mental workings.”

      “Don’t go over to their side Greg!  Stay with us plain-speaking folks.”

      “There’s already too much plain about me John, gotta shine myself up somehow.”

      “You’re plenty shiny, you git.  Sherlock tossed a shirt out of the window yesterday that cost more than my whole wardrobe and you don’t see me worrying about being too plain.”

      “That’s because you already _have_ that great blackbird.”

      “Are you finally saying _you_ want your great blackbird?”

      “No… maybe.  I’m just saying it’s one thing if you’ve already been let know you’re good enough.  I don’t have that, John.  You know… I tried at the opera, I really did, and then not a word for days.  You can afford to be confident but I can’t.  I just can’t.”

      “Yes you can.  You’ve got a lot to offer and don’t forget it.  And Mycroft must think you’ve got something to spark his interest or he wouldn’t be squiring you about town and in front of the lord and ladies.  So pour yourself some liquid courage and go stir your soup.  It’s going to be fine, Greg.  You’re going to have a nice evening and if you decide to take things a little further, you know that you’re not going to get the sailor’s elbow.”

      “Can’t anything be easy, John?”

      “Not if it’s worthwhile.”

__________

**7:58 pm**

Wine breathing, cheese and bread out and artfully arranged, vegetable packets in oven, bouillabaisse ready for last-minute finishes, cream, bowl  and whisk chilling…  and feeling better with John’s support and a decent swallow of his cheap scotch.  It was going to be a good night.  And it was on his home ground, so he could move things along at his own pace.  Based on how the night flowed, that pace could be slow or fast… or a little of both…

__________

**8:25 pm**

Nice thing about red wine, it could sit a little and still be fine.  Cheese does well with a little plastic over the top and the bread hadn’t been cut so no freshness worries there.  Veggie starters would be alright cold and he’d put them on a clean dishcloth so they wouldn’t get soggy...  Odd that Mycroft hadn’t called or texted about being held up, but maybe time got away from him and he didn’t even realize he was running late.

_Hope everything’s ok.  ETA? – GL_

__________

**8:55 pm**

Boy, that wine was nice.  Maybe not nice enough to warrant the price, but it was good nonetheless.  And those starters were good, too.  They would have been _amazing_ hot and crisp.  And bouillabaisse just got better as it sat…

__________

**9:40 pm**

Yep, bouillabaisse just as he remembered it.  Good crunchy bread, a bowl of killer stew and, policeman’s luck, _The Thin Man_ was on the telly.  That was a rarity.

__________

**10:30 pm**

Apple tarte is a marvel.  Sweet, but not too sweet.  Buttery crust… it would probably be luscious with some whipped cream, but that could wait for tomorrow night’s dinner.

__________

**11:15 pm**

That William Powell was amazing.  And Myrna Loy, they needed more actresses like her today.  Classy, lovely, smart, savvy…

Good thing about soup and tarte and bread and wine… all of it puts up well.  And maybe he _would_ bring the remains by John and Sherlock’s.  Didn’t need all of this food hanging about… be good to pass it on to people who’d enjoy it.  Yeah, that was the right idea.  Do all that work… _someone_ should enjoy it.

Lestrade cleared the kitchen and checked his phone one last time before turning out the lights and starting to pull off his clothes as he walked into the bathroom.  Nice reflection… old man hair, stubble coming in, tired eyes, tired skin, tired everything…  and stripped down to boxers he looked even more tired.  Good thing he spent his nights alone or he’d wind up offending some poor unsuspecting bystander.  Looking up at the ceiling, lying on his mattress, Lestrade wondered exactly at what point he lost his perspective.  Tossed his judgment into the rubbish.  Mycroft had been playing with him from the onset, but he couldn’t lay all the blame on the sophisticated prat.  He’d made it easy.  Lapped up the attention and gone crawling back even when Mycroft took a knife to his guts and let his insides meet his outsides.

But tomorrow was a new day.  Brand new day.  Yeah… do a run to 221B when he got off the job and drop off leftovers and maybe… maybe hang around a bit.  It’d be nice to see some friendly faces and not… not spend the evening home alone again.

__________

      “Gregory?”

Lestrade’s police instincts flung him upwards towards his attacker and just as quickly he found himself face down on his mattress with his arms secured behind his back.

      “Gregory… be calm.  It is simply me.”

Mycroft?  What in the name of flaming furious fuck was Mycroft Holmes doing in his house?  On his bed?

      “What in the name of flaming furious fuck are you doing in my house?  On my bed?  Get off of me!”

And his arms were suddenly free and Mycroft was shifting himself a little bit away from the angry man trying to get himself disentangled from sheets and humiliation.

      “I am here because… because I could not let his night pass without _being_ here.  Without looking you in the eye and telling you how sorry I am that I allowed your efforts and intentions go to waste.  I behaved inexcusably and you again suffered for my actions.  That is not something you should ever have to do, Gregory.  You should never have to suffer because of me.”

Mycroft Holmes did _not_ have permission to touch him.  Lestrade pushed away the hand that was running down his cheek and pulled himself up to rest against the wall that served as his headboard.

      “You smell like alcohol.”

      “An unexpected social occasion that I was not in a position to decline.”

      “And a four-second text was too much to ask?”

      “No.  It was not at all too much to ask.  On that, I also failed you.  I will be honest, Gregory.  This situation arose suddenly and there was no option but to turn my entire attention towards it.  I did not allow myself to remember our evening until I was in the car to bring me home and I checked my messages.  And I will not insult you by offering excuses.  The most I beg is understanding that my time does not belong wholly to me.  And it is not uncommon that I must forsake that which I want for that which I must.  But… I feel the loss, Gregory.  I feel the loss and the missed opportunities and the pain I cause and the dashed hopes and unfulfilled wishes… and that you are touched by those things savages me… I had to come, my dear.  I could not let you think that I did not regret, profoundly, what I had done, especially as summit to the previous insults and slights.  I do, my dearest Gregory.  I regret that I was not here tonight, where I wanted with every fiber of my being to be, and that I allowed your head to meet you pillow thinking that I had forsaken you again.”

Not going to give a millimeter on this one.

      “And the past few days without ONE FUCKING WORD OF CONTACT!  I get you’re busy, Mycroft.  I do… I really do… but I also know you can do pretty much whatever you want.  If you couldn’t contact me directly, you could have one of your assistants do it.   Just one quick text.  Just one little ‘hey, I enjoyed being with you.’  You _could_ have done it and you didn’t.  Anything to say that… that you had a good time.  That the time meant something to you.  That you weren’t ashamed to be out with a commoner…"

      “Oh Gregory… you know that’s not true…”

      “Do I?  Why?  Why would I know that?  Didn’t introduce me to your little friend, did you?  Actually, you really didn’t introduce me to anyone the other night.  ‘And this is Gregory Lestrade.’  Period.  Not one word about what I did.  What am I supposed to think?  Everyone you introduced to me I got the full resume, but not the other way around.  Then, nothing.  Not one word besides ‘cook me dinner!’  And I did.  I ran myself crazy and worked my hardest and…”

Lestrade couldn’t push one more word out of his mouth and felt completely weak and useless that he couldn’t flay someone alive with his tongue like a Holmes.

      “Just go, Mycroft.  Go be with your own tribe and leave me alone.”

Mycroft surged forward and grabbed Lestrade’s shoulders in a tight grip.

      “I will _not_.  I do not deserve a man such as you, Gregory, but I crave you nonetheless.  You are in my dreams and that vexes me terribly, for I have never felt such attraction towards any individual.  You play behind my eyes and laugh and smile and I awake wanting you more strongly than I did when I went to sleep.  And that is every day, my dear.  Every day I wake with a greater longing in my heart and a rage that you are not in my arms to soothe that longing.  I have done nothing good for you, Gregory… my darling Gregory, yet I ask so much of you.  I ask that you accept me for who I am.  I ask that you take into your heart that you are the only one for whom my own heart has ever cried out.  I ask that you forgive me for this.  And for all I have done.  If there is one thing that I can offer to you with perfect certainty, it is that I hold you tightly inside and there will be no other person who will take that place.  And I do not say this lightly, nor without thought and consideration.  I did not look for this.  I did not seek it, plan it nor anticipate it, yet here is where I find myself.  Do you know what that is like for me, Gregory?  To have something so staggering happen without my control?  Without my construction or implementation?  I will not permit something so unique… so valuable to me… to vanish like smoke in the sky.  Do you know?  Can you possibly imagine?”

Lestrade stared at the man gripping him so hard he’d see bruises tomorrow.  A man so tightly wound that he was nearly vibrating with energy.  Nothing of the cool or composed about him now.  And that said much more than his fancy words ever could.

      “No, I can’t.   You’re gonna have to show me.”

Lestrade knew Mycroft had a physical strength that he kept as camouflaged as his pain from Sherlock’s rejections, but he almost felt like a child when the elder Holmes pulled him into a hard and nearly brutal kiss that he couldn’t have broken even he remotely wanted to.  Mycroft broke off the embrace and leaned for another feather-soft press of his lips.

      “That I shall be happy to do.”

Suddenly, Lestrade was flat on his back, the sheets and blanket from his bed tossed on the floor, their warmth replaced by a tall body that covered him with what seemed like miles of soft fabric that moved like gentle caresses across his skin.

      “I will be more than happy to show you what I feel, my dear.  Show you and erase any doubts that this is exactly where I want to be.  And _you_ are who I want.”

Lestrade almost laughed when Mycroft’s teeth latched onto his skin, exactly where his last mark was about to fade into memory.

      “You like to mark your territory, don’t you?”

      “I like the idea that every time you look at yourself in the mirror, you will think of me.  And when I see you, I will think of you lying beneath me allowing me to place this on your body.  Letting me decorate you with a visible sign of my devotion… giving me something to visualize during tumultuous times.  I would keep a mark on you, my dear Gregory.  Maybe here on your neck, maybe on your hip or inner thigh… at the base of your spine… places where only my eyes would ever gaze.”

      “So, no using the communal showers at the gym, I guess.”

The sharp nip that Lestrade received for his flippancy should really not have sent a bolt of pleasure straight downwards to his nerves and quicken his body’s response to Mycroft’s attentions, but he was not going to complain in the slightest.  Especially as Mycroft continued to nip and suck across his shoulder then down his chest, stopping only when an erect nipple nestled itself between his lips and his nipping and sucking gained a shaper and more vocal result.

      “So sensitive… how many hours I could spend in exploration…”

A strong, well-manicured hand roamed down Lestrade’s chest and stomach, teasing the light trail of hair that ran south from his navel and using a warm, flat palm to massage the skin underneath.

      “…learning your body and listening to it sing.”

That warm flat palm slid slowly beneath the band of Lestrade’s checkered boxers and Mycroft’s lips curled into a satisfied grin hearing the loud intake of breath as he gripped the hard and heated flesh beneath his fingers and began to stroke leisurely.

      “And you do sing beautifully, Gregory.  I have wanted for so long to know you in this manner, although I never thought I would have the opportunity… that I would _deserve_ the opportunity…”

      “Mycroft, please…”

A wet and muscular tongue traced back upwards to take Lestrade’s lips in a soft and gentle kiss that tasted of wine and whisky.

      “That is what I desire, my dearest.  To please… to tantalize and tease and pleasure.  And how well I seem to be doing.  You’re close, aren’t you Gregory?  Your body began to respond the moment you felt my lips upon your skin and now… you already ache for release.  So full and swollen and tight.  And mine.”

This bite was firm and prolonged and directly above Lestrade’s heart.  It was only because Mycroft gripped forcefully at the base of his erection that the Detective Inspector didn’t find the orgasm he had been chasing almost since the moment Mycroft’s body lay against his .  And the soothing nuzzle of his partner’s warm lips only sent his excitement higher.  Such a perfect blend of rough and tender… of course Mycoft knew how to play his body like a master.  Now though, it was his turn.

      “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

A low, rich chuckle rippled against his newest mark and made Lestrade groan as deeply as the swipe of Mycroft’s thumb across very tender flesh gathered a large drop of moisture to make the next few swipes even more delicious.

      “Of course, how overly clad of me.”

One long body drew itself upright, and a hand moved to loosen a dove grey tie.

      “No you don’t.  That’s my job.”

Lestrade crawled out off of his bed, very aware of the prominent bulge ruining the lines of Mycroft’s trousers.

      “I am at your mercy.”

      “Someday, you’ll rue those words.”

      “I am certain I will.  And as certain I will _not_.”

Lestrade laughed as he muttered ‘twisty bastard’ and started to slowly remove Mycroft’s tie, which was tossed delicately onto Lestrade’s dresser.  One day, that tie would be put to good use around Mycroft’s wrists and would not come out of the experience as anything but a wrinkled scrap of fabric, but not today.  Then it was the top button of Mycroft’s very white shirt.  Then the second and third and down in order until Lestrade had to wriggle the shirt upwards to free it completely and finish the unbuttoning.  If it was at all possible, Mycroft’s pupils dilated wider watching Lestrade’s painful erection sway as he freed the crisp cotton shirt and the quiet hiss that greeted Lestrade as he began to run his own kisses across bared flesh was a welcome boost to his ego.

And every part of Mycroft was spicy.  His lips, his fingers and every centimeter of his fine, porcelain chest.  He known, just known, that any hair he’d find would be gorgeously copper, deep rich copper, and Lestrade’s erection twitched from the sheer beauty of that soft spark of color on such perfectly pale skin.  And it was impeccably framed by the debauched regalia of a disheveled shirt and jacket.  Suddenly, removing Mycroft’s clothes to the floor wasn’t the priority it had been…

Instead, Lestrade locked eyes with the most beautiful man alive and sank slowly to his knees, savoring the dark hunger that skittered across Mycroft’s face and settled deeply in his eyes, as he laid a hand at the back of Lestrade’s head and entwined his fingers in strands of silver hair.  One button and one nearly-silent zipper and more glossy hair that pointed directly beneath layer of grey silk that matched Mycroft’s tie.  Silk that felt like a whispered breath against Lestrade’s cheek as he rubbed his face lightly it.  And he needed more of that, more of that warm and musky silk and the body that made it that way.  Using his teeth, Lestrade pulled aside a section of that glorious grey silk and slipped his tongue into the gap it exposed, taking a long lick of the treasure he found.  The sharp hitch of breath was pure encouragement and it wasn’t a moment before he had used his tongue to bring his treasure out of hiding and pulled it deeply into his mouth.  As feral as Mycroft had seemed before, his eyes blazed now with a lust that was purely animalistic.  And a firm, deep suck made the animal growl… Lestrade lifted his hands to touch and found them swatted away sharply.

      “Mouth only.”

And the DI could only hope that the whimper he heard did not come from _him_.  The same with the second as long fingers gripped his hair tightly and nudged his head forward so that Mycroft slid deeper into his mouth.  And that broke the last layer of Lestrade’s composure, starting his head bobbing and his tongue writing love letters against the hard flesh between his lips.  He let Mycroft set the pace, guided by the fingers in his hair and the shallow thrusting of Mycroft’s hips as he slowly fucked Lestrade’s mouth, letting the most primal and raw sounds scorch the air of Lestrade’s bedroom.

      “Touch yourself, but do not release until I will it.”

Lestrade’s hands did not hesitate to obey and his whole body hummed with satisfaction when Mycroft’s awed whisper of ‘beautiful’ reach his ears.  And that was the only outside stimulus he could process.  Every other sense was overcome by the scent, taste and feel of his lover and the way his own body was drinking in those sensations, almost to the exclusion of the pleasure his own hands were giving him.  And it was so easy to simply get lost in the stimulation.  To let Mycroft take him as he pleased, secure in the knowledge that his lusts and desires would not go unfulfilled.  And Mycroft did take… used his mouth gently, but relentlessly until the fingers in his lover’s hair tightened, his hips stilled and warm, salty spurts painted the back of Lestrade’s throat while he DI’s head was held still to take every drop.

      “Now, Gregory.  Let me savor your pleasure.”

The pressure at the back of Lestrade’s head lessened to a tender petting as he began to stroke himself more quickly.

      “You are a precious gift, my dearest.  Valuable beyond price.  And I cherish you above all others.”

Everything Lestrade had needed to hear… the force of his orgasm seemed to tear his body apart and a harsh cry echoed against the white plaster walls.  Then it was warm lips against his, strong hands running up and down his back and quiet, simple endearments filling his ears as he slumped into Mycroft’s embrace.

      “Must have been mind-blowing because I can’t think at all right now.”

There wasn’t a sound in the world as wonderful as Mycroft’s real and unaffected laugh.

      “I heartily concur.  Fortunately for you, sleeping does not require a vast quantity of thought.”

      “You mean fortunately for us, that bed won’t have a problem playing host to two.”

This sigh was not a passionate one… it was heavy with regret.

      “I’m afraid I cannot, though there is no action that would make me happier.  My visit was to apologize while I had the opportunity, for I leave this morning and I am not entirely certain when I shall return.  Specific events at the international level have made my attention and skill set a necessary thing and I cannot set aside my responsibility, even though… I have never had such a burning desire to do so.”

Lestrade felt his heart sink as he listened to Mycroft’s words and wiped away the evidence or their night together on a corner of his bedsheet.  Back to reality…

      “I get it.  I do… so don’t worry about it.  It’s enough to know you’d stay if you could.”

      “I would, Gregory.  I promise you that.”

      “Let’s get you cleaned up, then.  Don’t want your driver giving you a talking to on the ride home.”

      “Charles employs the disappointed stare as his weapon of choice.”

      “At least he’s keeping you in line.  Come on, love… you look a right mess.  A hot, sexy, porn-star-gorgeous mess, but we’ll spruce you up a bit anyway.”

      “I place gladly myself into your hands for, truly, I feel there is no safer place to be…

__________

Lestrade saw Mycroft out to his car, not caring if his neighbors happily watched as he kissed his lover goodnight.

      “So, you’re going dark again?”

      “Most likely.  I wish it were otherwise, but it shall not be forever.  At minimum, I will contact you when these affairs are laid to rest and we can plan our next outing.  You seem to enjoy sporting events… perhaps a night to sample whatever is in season?”

      “You want to go to a match with me?”

      “If you would not be woefully embarrassed to have me at your side.”

      “Embarrassed is the last thing I think of about you, Mycroft.  And… sure.  We can give it a go.  If the thought of lots of loud, sweaty ruffians pushing and shoving this way and that isn’t your thing, we can watch with the boys at the pub.  Much quieter and nearly as fun.”

      “Ah, that might be an acceptable compromise.  Until then, Gregory.”

      “Take care, Mycroft.”

One last kiss and the man in the sex-rumpled suit was vanishing into the city.

__________

**One Week Later**

Lestrade was still riding the high of his last encounter with the very passionate Mycroft Holmes and fending off demands for specifics from a certain Army doctor.  Arthur had called nearly every day and it had been a simple thing to describe his night in plain and innocent terms, slightly restructuring the timeline so Mycroft sat dinner with him and praised every dish as if it were created by a 5-star chef.  John, however, insisted upon schematic diagrams, the details of which were kept secret from Sherlock lest he suffer a stroke and expire on the spot.  It was a week after Mycroft departed before the two men had time to get together for a quick bite and Lestrade suggested a book shopping trip, since John was complaining about not recognizing 90% of the historical crimes Sherlock often mentioned when he was criticizing the lack of creativity by current n’er-do-wells and their criminal endeavors.

      “I’m telling you, John, this place is great.  They’ve got everything, if you don’t mind paying.”

      “I’m not sure if you’ve heard of it, but there’s this new thing out there called ‘the internet’ that has information, also.”

      “Someone’s feeling full of giggles today.  None of that crap’s been researched well and it’s all written by people who can’t sign their name unless someone hands them a crayon.  Anyway, they had a few books that I haven’t been able to find in my normal places, and I have a few extra quid this month… and there’s a great bistro across the street that does amazing sandwiches.”

      “Well, if you told me up front this was an excuse for food, I wouldn’t have said anything.”

      “Army marches on its stomach?”

      “I’ll have that put on my tombstone.”

      “Nope.  _Sherlock’s Sassy Boy_ has already been paid for.”

      “I’ve got sass?  Brilliant!”

The two men continued to offend the nicely-dressed and refined passers-by as they strolled towards the bookstore until John stopped and grabbed Lestrade’s arm.

      “Not to be weird, but doesn’t that bloke look like Mycroft?”

Standing on the sidewalk next to the bistro they were eyeing for lunch was a man who was a mirror image of the elder Holmes brother.

      “Can’t be… he’s still off doing his ruling of the world.  Well, I think he is, I mean… that really does look… it _is_ him.”

John followed Lestrade’s eyes to the large black sedan idling at the corner and as the man shifted slightly, the ever-present umbrella came into view.

      “But what’s he doing back in London?  I would have thought he would have let you know…”

The words died on John’s lips as another man, with nearly black hair and fine features, exited the bistro, carrying a large bag filled with what must have been take-away containers.  Mycroft’s face broke into a pleased smile and took a brief, but loving kiss from the man’s lips, wrapping an arm around his waist and escorting him towards the waiting car.  John was absolutely petrified to say one word, in case it was the word that sent Lestrade into a homicidal rage.

For his part, Lestrade watched the exchange and felt his insides freeze into a cold and dead mass.  They might call Mycroft the Iceman, but there was someone else, now, that could vie for the title.  Right now, he could feel nothing.  Nothing but… things he couldn’t think about or he’d be someone dangerous to both himself and others.


	21. Virtual Images are False, but Right-Side Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So very many wonderful comments and ideas... I am so grateful for the feedback!

      “Greg…”

      “Let’s go, John.  I’ll… I’ll stop back by and get you a couple of good reads.  Nice, gory ones.”

      “Greg, we need to talk about this.”

      “Not right now, John.  Give me that at least.”

John was actually very good at compartmentalizing his doctor side from his friend/partner side, but was also good at rapidly switching from one to the other as the situation demanded.  And right now, he flipped his medical switch and ran a trained eye over his friend.  Greg was quickly losing the healthy color of his skin and the sudden stillness that enveloped his body and softened his voice was actually frightening.  It was as if the Detective Inspector was starting to fade inside and John knew very well down which path that could lead.  Especially on top of the other abuses Mycroft had heaped onto his shoulders.

      “Ok… that’s fine.  Let’s go back to the flat and I’ll make some tea and…”

      “I’m going home.”

Under no circumstances was John going to let Lestrade be alone after this blow on his already-bruised soul.

      “Then we’ll have tea there.  Not a problem, I can make tea anywhere, it’s one of my most valuable skills.”

      “Look, John… you don’t have to…”

      “You’re right.  I _don’t_ have to.  But I want to.  And, honestly, I’m not sure that if I don’t get you in a cab soon, you’ll be able to stay on your feet much longer.”

A suspicion that was quickly confirmed by the subtle, but increasing, sagging in Lestrade’s limbs.  Fortunately, the street was busy and hailing a cab wasn’t difficult.  John stayed on alert until Lestrade was seated, then crawled into the cab after him.  As if being out of public sight triggered a toggle, Lestrade felt the last of his strength leave and it was all he could do to simply bend over and lay his head in his hands.  John passed on the address to the cabbie and rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder in a show of support.  Let the man catch his breath and at least try to process what had just happened.  Not that John was having much luck at that.  Actually, no luck at all.  And… that reminded him…

_May be a little late – JW_

_Not acceptable – SH_

_Why not? – JW_

_I’m hungry – SH_

_That’s a bad attempt at a lie – JW_

_It is the truth.  And I want dumplings – SH_

_Here’s what you do.  Look at you hand – JW_

_See the gadget you’re holding? – JW_

_Punch buttons and speak to the man on the other end – JW_

_Tell him you want dumplings – JW_

_They taste better when you place the order – SH_

_And when you eat them with me – SH_

Now, that was just what John needed right now… his own Holmes could be a complete berk, but he also could surprise with the nicest things…

_Love you too, Sherlock – JW_

_But I’m going to spend a little time with Greg.  I’ll explain when I get home – JW_

_Is there a problem? – SH_

_When I get home, Sherlock.  And we can have dumplings – JW_

_And egg rolls – SH_

_Yes, dear – JW_

      “John you didn’t…”

      “Nah, just letting him know where I am and agreeing to have Chinese for dinner.  We found a new place to order from that he actually is almost willing to eat half a plate’s worth.  But you realize I’m going to have to tell him, right?  He’ll find out one way or another and it should be me that looks him in the eye and tells him… that he was right.”

      “Oh christ…”

Lestrade slumped over more sharply and John knew the man was running all of Sherlock’s supposed slander against Mycroft across his memory.

      “He’s been trying to protect me, John.  Knew what was coming and did what he thought was the right thing.  And it _was_.  For all the crap we gave him, he had it right all along.”

John had a host of remarks and jokes to make about that, all of which would normally make Lestrade laugh, but he kept them to himself.  Sherlock _had_ been right and took active steps to try and prevent this nightmare from happening.  As sharp as was his pain for Lestrade’s suffering, was his pride and affection for his partner.  Sherlock may not have done things in the most tactful way, but he at least took action when he thought it was necessary.  Yes, there would be dumplings and egg rolls for dinner.  And a quick trip to the shops to replenish the supplies in the nightstand.

__________

Lestrade was absolutely sure that he was in a cab with John, but he was having trouble picking up on the actual details of the ride.  Sights, sounds and smells seemed to blend together and John’s voice seemed hazy and thick to his ears.  He was such a fool.  Sherlock had called him one and that was right on target.  He’d called _himself_ that, but gone scurrying back to Mycroft each time after a few well-chosen words landed in his ear.  Of course Mycroft would tell what he needed to hear!  What would make the difference and bring him back into his grasp.  The man was Mycroft Fucking Holmes!  He knew exactly how to play a person to get what he wanted, which apparently was a bit of rough on the side while he kept his real social life among the money-and-power crowd.  Show off his little pet monkey at the opera, come and go as he pleased and put on a grand show when Lestrade stood up to his crap.  A grand and calculated show that someone as stupid as he was would fall for over and over again.  A grown man.  With a job that mandated he be good at reading people and he’d failed totally.  He’d let every word of Mycroft’s flowery speeches soak into his bones and looked away from what was really happening.  First his wife and now someone… someone who could have been the next major relationship in his life.  He’d been so stupid…

And it had to be that opera bastard.  Actually it made perfect sense.  Mycroft already knew him in the biblical sense and seemed very happy in his company.  And that Edgar was a kid!  Young, handsome, rich… the text.  Mycroft got that text after the opera and smirked.  Stupid kid said he’d text with directions to a party… the one he hadn’t been invited to.  And, then no contact.  Well, there we go.  Solved that little puzzle quite nicely.  The only real question was whether the screwing was going on before or after the opera.  And there wasn’t any doubt about where Mycroft had been the night he was supposed to be eating Greg’s low-class dinner, was there?  He’d been played… played because he was lonely and eager and stupid and naive and…

      “Greg?  We’re here.”

Lestrade tried to focus on what was beyond the windows of the cab and wasn’t successful.  Fortunately, John was there to help him out of the cab and get him into his flat or he’d probably be wandering around his neighborhood, lost in his own head.  At some point John must have made tea because a hot cup was warming his palms.  Didn’t even notice it.  He was being stupid again, wasn’t he?  Which should not be a surprise, by now.  He was behaving like a foolish youth and disgracing himself just as handily as Mycroft had done to him.  Lestrade couldn’t even count himself as an ally anymore…

      “Ok, I’ve let you think and brood and huff for long enough and now we need to talk.”

      “The gruff doctor isn’t your best character.”

      “Well, it’s the only one besides the kindly old gent that I’ve practiced very much.  And that chap isn’t going to really help you at the moment.”

      “Really?  I’d say I could use a little kindness right now.”

John grimaced and leaned back in his chair, setting down his tea on the kitchen table.

      “You’re right and I’m sorry.  Let me try again and I’ll aim for the middle ground.  I do want to know what’s going on in your mind, Greg.  I’m concerned right now with what I’m seeing and I need to know where your brain is in terms of this whole mess.  And that’s me as both a doctor and your friend.  Whatever I can do to help, you know I’m here.”

      “Thanks John, but there’s no reason to be concerned.  I’d say I’m exactly where you’d expect to find someone who found out that they were being used and lied to.  Not really an unusual thing.  Happens to lots of people. Give me a few days and I’ll bounce right back.”

Even Arthur would be able to tell that Lestrade was lying through his teeth.  Or perhaps he wasn’t lying.  John was actually worried the man believed what he was saying, which would open the door for a host of issues to move in and begin to take hold.  Psychology was not at all John’s strong point, but he’d done the basic coursework and even his poor grasp of the concepts let him know that his friend needed to talk.  Several times.  At least.

      “Greg, you’ve suffered a lot of emotional turmoil lately and though big strong blokes like us are supposed to be able to shrug it all off, it just doesn’t work that way.”

      “I think the more crap you go through, the easier it is each time to turn things around, actually.”

      “Someone beats you over the head with a pipe, it doesn’t get easier to take with each fresh knock.”

      “I didn’t say that, I said you just got over it quicker.”

      “A head that’s been pulped is _not_ easier to get over than a bump on the brow.”

      “Pipes to the head don’t make you stronger.  Getting your face spat in does, though.”

      “You’re confusing strength with numbness.”

      “God you sound like one of those tabloid rags.  The articles about feelings and other nonsense.”

      “ _You_ sound like Sherlock.  Don’t discount emotions, Greg.  They affect us in lots of ways and yours have been chaotic lately.  You need to really think and talk about all of this so it doesn’t continue to drag you down.”

John took the untouched cup of tea out of Lestrade’s hands and set it aside.  Perhaps the man did need a little time to himself first before he could open up.  _He’d_ needed time alone, lots of it actually, after Sherlock’s ‘death.’  And a lot of dishes to replace the ones he kept hurling against the walls…

      “I tell you what.  How about we see what bit of rubbish we can find to watch sitting on your lumpy couch with a few bottles of ale and not worry about Mycroft or his umbrella that should be shoved up his ass?”

      “Can I shorten the handle so he can’t pull it back out?”

      “I’ll lend you a saw.  Come on, we’ll talk about important things another day.”

__________

      “I am nearly starved to death, John.”

      “Then aren’t you lucky to live with someone who is so tuned to your needs that he actually arrives with food in his hands.”

Sherlock looked up from John’s laptop to see the doctor waving bags in the air.

      “Did you…”

      “Dumplings, egg rolls, and a nice variety of other things that have tasty vegetables in them.  “

      “Acceptable, though I do find that I miss Arthur’s creative blending during our meals, at times.”

      “I’ll mix in some chocolate with the beef and broccoli if that makes you feel better.”

      “Use the French, not the Swiss.  I do not think the Swiss will agree with the bitterness of the broccoli.”

      “Such a connoisseur.  Just let me get this plated.”

      “Is that another procrastinating measure to elongate the time interval during which we do not talk about Lestrade?”

      “Oh, that lost you the extra sauce.”

      “A small matter.  What is wrong, John?  That you would not tell me previously indicates it is a situation both delicate and serious.”

John let a large sigh escape and it felt like he was releasing some of his own worry along with it.  Maybe it wasn’t Greg that needed to talk now, but _he_ certainly did.   One plate of food was deposited on the desk next to his laptop and the other he set down next to it, after eating half a dumpling in one bite.

      “That’s not a bad description and… I have to do this first.  Sherlock Holmes, I offer you a sincere apology.  And I _am_ sincere, I mean it, there’s no playing around here at all.  I am sorry that I doubted you and…”

      “What did he do?”

Sherlock’s voice was terse and businesslike, but John couldn’t miss the slight twitch to his fingers as he waited for the answer.

      “I haven’t kept you informed about Greg and Mycroft; I thought it would be best for all and it’s been a lot of downs to go with the ups, but that night Greg cooked for him, Mycroft didn’t show.  No call, no text, no anything.  Then, he broke in after Greg went to bed and, well, things got a little steamy and…”

      “They engaged in a sexual interaction.”

      “Yeah.  Then, Mycroft told Greg he was going to be away and off the radar for a long time and, you know he and I went out shopping, right, and…”

      “John?”

      “Mycroft’s cheating on Greg.  If cheating is even the right word since they aren’t formally anything, but…”

      “And you are certain of this?”

      “Giving a man a full-on kiss in the middle of the street before whisking him off to your car is a pretty good sign.”

John hated when Sherlock’s expression was cold and blank because it meant very bad things.

      “You said it would happen.  You said Mycroft would hurt Greg and I didn’t listen.  It just didn’t make sense!  Mycroft is so _good_ with Arthur and Martin…”

      “Mycroft delights in every chance to meddle and Arthur finds this very agreeable.  And what Arthur likes, Martin indulges.  Further, Arthur views my brother as godlike, which feeds Mycroft’s ego to an unholy degree, establishing a positive-feedback loop.  None of that, however is relevant.  Tell me, John… how is Lestrade?”

      “Trying to deny he’s hurting.  Mycroft has punched him over and over and I think Greg is ashamed, thinks he let it happen, that he should have been smarter… on top of feeling betrayed, used, worthless… it’s not going to be easy for him to heal and it’s going to be worse if he doesn’t let some of the anger out and talk to someone.”

      “Lestrade is _not_ stupid.  Or worthless.”

      “No, but it’s easy to understand why his brain’s going in that direction, with all he’s been through.  You’ve gotta remember that his bitch of a wife cheated on him and what Mycroft did to him over that case you worked with Arthur…”

John wished his mouth had quicker reflexes so he could have snapped it shut before the words flowed out.  Sherlock’s narrowed gaze made John feel both anxious and guilty.

      “You have been keeping something from me.”

      “Lots, actually.  Things Greg didn’t want spread around and things I thought you’d find tedious or upsetting.”

      “Rectify this.  Immediately.”

John opened his mouth to argue but decided that Sherlock deserved to know everything.  He was the only one without stars in his eyes, after all… so out poured the whole story.  Every detail that he’d been privy to about Lestrade and Mycroft’s relationship, including the conversation that had taken Lestrade and torn him into very small pieces that were still not fitting together properly.  And now this betrayal…

      “You should have made me aware of these things long before now, John.”

      “It’s emotions and feelings, Sherlock… you know that makes you uncomfortable.”

      “That is insignificant compared to the fact that my brother has behaved in such a manner towards Lestrade.  There is much I can excuse, but not… he truly said those words?”

      “I wish I could say no, but I can’t  And his just letting it all stand… Greg was devastated.  But Mycroft  apologized eventually and did it _grandly_ …”

      “Mycroft does not do anything if not grandly, except when being grandly subtle is a better action.”

Sherlock began tapping the desk with his fork.  When the tapping turned to stabbing, John moved to remove the potential weapon.

      “I must go.  Do not remain awake on my account for I may not return for quite awhile.”

Sherlock took his eggroll and cooling dumplings in one hand and another eggroll from the carton in the kitchen as he made to leave the flat.

      “Sherlock!  I have no idea what you have in mind, but I am _very_ sure it’s a bad idea.”

      “Nonsense.  We are in agreement that for this matter, _my_ judgment is the one to be trusted.”

__________

John had stayed true to this word and didn’t raise the matter of his failed love life once as they caught a few random bits of programming that was both appalling and addictive and then a run of the news.  It had been a welcome chance to turn off his brain, but it couldn’t last.  When John finally left, Lestrade left the telly on whatever channel it had been broadcasting because he wasn’t consciously seeing it anymore.  Without John there to help him keep focused and engaged, his mind sank quickly into dark and cold waters.  Patterns… police work was about patterns and he was starting to see one.  What was the common denominator in his failed relationships?  Him.  He got cheated on, left behind… he was the one who ignored signs and made poor decisions.  Lestarde knew he was a simple man.  Not highly educated or cultured or sophisticated… but he’d thought the traits he had would be valued by _someone_.  But thinking about it… decent, honest, caring people were always the ones taken advantage of.  The ones fooled and… nice guys finished last.  That was a true thing.  So very, very true…

The knock at the door made his blood run even colder, but he calmed himself down with the reminder that Mycroft’s knock was prim and soft.  This was a banging that was more likely a neighbor with some complaint about their bins being knocked over by cats or something equally frivolous.  Being on the job apparently made him the personal complaint department for every ill-wind that blew through the street.  But, it would distract him for awhile and there was something good to be said for that.

      “Can I help you… Sherlock?”

On the other side of his door stood the young detective, with a rumpled paper sack in his hand.

      “I am here to speak with you.  Take this.”

The sack was thrust forward and Lestrade quickly took it before Sherlock simply get go assuming Lestrade would catch it on the way down.  A peek inside showed the neck of a bottle.  The neck of a _nice_ bottle.

      “Ah… I have observed that conversations of a difficult nature, those focusing on troubling issues, are often accompanied by alcohol to alleviate some of the distress of the participants.  Do not worry, it is a quality whisky of which I am certain you will approve.  May I now enter?”

Sherlock was here with booze for a talk.  Even if he wanted to, and he did, he couldn’t close the door on the lad.  Lestrade was convinced that this was a unique event in Sherlock’s life and he honestly couldn’t be happier for the young detective.  If nothing else, seeing the boy doing his best to be a stand-up mate was lifting his spirits more than he would have thought possible.

      “Sure, come on in.  And thanks for the bottle.  You’re joining me, right?”

      “It _is_ part of the ritual.”

      “That’s why you got the good stuff.”

      “Quite.”

      “So, I take it John filled you in.”

Lestrade wagged the bag in the direction of the kitchen and Sherlock drew out a chair, dropping himself into it with more than a little fanfare.

      “He did.  And he retraced the steps of your interactions with my brother, painting a fuller picture than I had possessed.  Mycroft has been cruel to you.”

No beating around the bush when dealing with Sherlock.

      “You could say that.”

      “And I will.  He has been intentionally cruel and neglectful of your emotions, knowing that emotions are something you consider important.  He has treated you with disdain and used you at his convenience to gain his own benefits and pleasures.”

      “Well, not much in that I can disagree with.”

      “And you lay the fault on yourself.”

Perhaps nurturing Sherlock’s emotional awareness wasn’t actually the best idea.

      “Not entirely.  But, if I’m to face facts… I do consider some of it my fault.  I had unacceptable lapses in judgment, ignored my own internal warning bells, believed what the sodding bastard told me even though I know just how much of his life deals with lies and tricks and misdirections.”

      “You are a fool.”

      “As you are very fond of telling me.”

That Sherlock cringed at the statement was actually comforting.  Maybe he wasn’t any good for making someone happy, but at least he hadn’t failed in everything in his life.

      “Which you are aware is rarely an appropriately-applied term.  In this case, however, it is.  You cannot be faulted in this situation, beyond an unsupported optimism towards Mycroft.  He has spent his life manipulating and deceiving individuals who are trained to expect and detect such things and he has done it masterfully.”

      “Could have listened to you, though.  I’m sorry for that, Sherlock.  I am very sorry that I didn’t believe you.  Looking out for me the whole time, weren’t you?”

      “It is understandable.  Hormonal fluctuations associated with lust and affection readily cloud perceptions.  I have occasionally fallen victim to the phenomenon, agreeing to perform such uncharacteristic acts such as going to the shop to purchase milk when John is far better suited for the task.”

For the first time since watching Mycroft lock lips with Mr. Perfect, Lestrade was able to laugh.  Two large dollops of whisky splashed into his last two clean glasses and he took a long sip after handing Sherlock his share.  Yeah… it was _very_ good…

      “So romantic.  Most chaps present roses, but you’ve cut straight to the heart of the matter.  Nothing says ‘I love you’ better than fresh milk for the tea.”

      “I am glad you agree.  However, my point stands.  I cannot fault your disbelief in my assessment of the situation owing to your own internal perturbation and Mycroft’s external machinations.  I must also offer an apology-by-proxy for John’s failure to inform me about my brother’s words during the investigation of the diamond collar.  And my own for, albeit unknowingly, placing you in a position to be the target of Mycroft’s wrath.”

      “None of that, Sherlock.  You did good that night; gave Arthur something he’ll remember the rest of his life and did yourself proud keeping him out of trouble, but still letting him be an active part of the investigation.  Mycroft just had a bad turn and that’s nothing to do with you.”

      “Nor you, yet he did not hesitate to say to you the most unconscionable things.  You are not responsible for his inability to behave as a credible human being, Lestrade.  You have not conducted yourself in anything but an honorable fashion and have offered him both companionship and fondness.  It is his loss that he could not see the worth of such an offer and of the person making the offer.  Mycroft is the true fool and he will live an empty life due to both his actions and inactions.  And, as you know, I am unusually qualified to make this assessment…”

And Lestrade could not disagree.   Sherlock was a very, very lucky man that John had a massive capacity for both patience and forgiveness.

      “Thank you, Sherlock.  Really… it’s good to hear something that contradicts the voices in my head.  Especially from such a reliable source.”

      “Excellent.  I am glad that you properly acknowledge my expertise on the various aspects of this matter.”

Of course he wouldn’t hear the teasing.  And that was fine… more than fine, really.  And he couldn’t deny that this was helping.  John was a good mate, but would tell him what he wanted to hear because it would make him feel better.  Sherlock would tell the _truth_ , for good or ill, so his words did carry some extra weight.  If Sherlock said it wasn’t his fault, wasn’t his failings… then, it was worth considering.

      “I’ll do that gladly.  And this is helpful, Sherlock.  I didn’t think I wanted to talk about Mycroft right now, but this is making me see things a little clearer.”

      “John has described to me your current psychological state and feelings of inadequacy.  Trust that I will do what I am able to correct any misapprehensions about your suitability as a romantic partner.  Though I do not find you attractive, I have little doubt that you have some physical appeal to the general population that, if you are amenable, can be used to secure another relationship.”

Oh yeah… this is exactly what he needed…

      “So you’re saying that if I cast out my line, I’ll hook a shiny little fish?”

      “I cannot agree or disagree since I have no understanding of that statement.”

      “I’ve got a chance to find someone again?”

      “Yes.  That was my message.”

Sherlock went to take a sip of his now-empty glass and refilled both his and Lestrade’s while the Detective Inspector let the boy’s words sink into his bones.  He had a chance… maybe he _wasn’t_ completely used up.  Actually, why should he be?  He’d given Mycroft a good tumble and who’s to say he couldn’t do better with someone who actually let him have more than one go so he could learn just what little things made their head swim.  Another chance… he’d not really put himself out there after his divorce and, even though he’d told Mycroft he would be casting out his line, he’d never made good on the threat.  Now, it was time.  Pursue some of the little smiles he got now and then, respond to the once-overs he got when he was at a pub… Mycroft Holmes was a prick who deserved a nasty piece of work like that Edgar fellow.  _He’d_ find someone nice.  Someone good and kind and loving and special who saw him the same way.  Yeah… it was long overdue…

      “And I can say I’m hearing it.  Really, Sherlock… I’m glad you stopped by.  It’s made a difference.”

Sherlock looked equally pleased and confused and Lestrade loved him dearly for it.

      “I… I am glad that I was able to be of help.  And I will extend the invitation that I previously refused to offer for you to join John and myself for an evening in.  I will not agree to any form of game, but a film might be agreeable if it does not involve wizards or mutants with biologically-impossible abilities.”

Right now, there was nothing that sounded more welcoming.  Even without wizards.

      “I’ll gladly take you up on it.  You can text me with details and… I have to say thank you, Sherlock.  Thank you so much for coming by tonight.  I can honestly say I’m feeling better about things, though it’s going to take me awhile to sweep out all the cobwebs.  And, of course, I still have to deal with Mycroft…”

      “That is ridiculous.  You are to have no further contact with him.”

      “That’s not the way it works, lad.  You have to have a clean break or the pain never fully goes away.  Anyway, it’ll be good to have my say.”

      “He will confound you.  Twist you into knots with lies and half-truths until you accept his deceit and take him again into your bed.”

Ok… that was probably, no… more than probably, true.

      “ _I_ will deliver your wishes and there will be no possibility for misunderstanding.  Moreover, Mycroft will not have an opportunity to further confuse your thinking.”

      “Sherlock, there are things a man has to do by himself…”

      “Society’s conventions mean little to me.  Nor should they to you.  I will ensure that your last contact with Mycroft will truly be the last.  I consider this settled; is there a minimum amount of time I must spend with you now that I have achieved my objective?”

Baby steps… but they were already further along the road than Lestrade would have believed.

      “Not at all.  Thanks to you, I actually think I can get some sleep tonight and that was something I’d given up on before you got here.  And I’ll see you and John soon, right?  With or without a new case of interest?”

Sherlock’s tiny, but deeply satisfied grin, warmed Lestrade’s heart.

      “I shall leave John to sort out the tedious details.”

The last of Sherlock’s whisky slid down his throat before he drew himself upright and straightened his coat.  Lestrade rose to show him out, but the younger man only followed a few steps before stopping.

      “He has hurt you, but he shall not have the chance again.  And the hurts are entirely his to own.  If you begin to feel differently, I hope that you will… that you will not hesitate to talk to me.  John’s subjectivity on the issue of my brother may not always make him the best partner for discussion.”

      “I give you my word, Sherlock.  And I appreciate the offer more than you can imagine.  Now get back to your man and show _him_ a little appreciation.  You’re a good match and I am thrilled that you’ve each found a good man to share your life.”

Sherlock could do little but give Lestarde a small nod and then was hurrying out of the held-open front door and towards a cab that must have been ordered to wait.

      “Good night, Sherlock.  And thank you for everything.”

__________

What were the Japanese thinking?  Mycroft knew that if he had to fly to Tokyo tomorrow, there would be a line of heads that would roll for upsetting his life due to idiocy and lack of foresight.  And he had a function tomorrow evening with Edgar that he would rather not miss for something as ridiculous as free distribution of military-grade electronics.

      “Enjoying your evening, Mycroft?”

And, of course, Sherlock would decide to make an appearance.  Fortunately, he had seen Edgar out an hour ago, begging time to complete his work day.

      “I could ask the same, dear brother.  Should you not be at home with your dear doctor?”

      “I will be soon enough.  We have business to settle first, you and I.  Might I trouble you for a drink?”

      “Are you feeling quite well?”

      “Actually, I am feeling _very_ well.  Some of your good brandy, I believe.  And you know the bottle I mean.”

Mycroft tried to assess his brother, but Sherlock was bafflingly bare of clues.

      “As you wish.”

The good brandy was in a cabinet at the base of a bookshelf and Mycroft retrieved two snifters, pouring a small measure for both himself and his younger sibling.

      “Now, for what reason are you interrupting my work?”

Sherlock took the proffered snifter, placed it on the corner of Mycroft’s desk, then crashed his fist into his insufferable brother’s jaw.


	22. Real Images are True, but Upside-Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully, some questions are answered... please keep the ideas and comments flowing. They are a true joy...

      “HAVE YOU GONE MAD?”

Mycroft lay sprawled on the floor of his sitting room, wet with spilled brandy and feeling the ache of what would surely be a sizeable bruise forming on his jaw.

      “In no manner.  _Reckoning_ … such an appropriate word.”

      “Sherlock, are you altered?’

Mycroft made a move to rise but Sherlock’s purposeful step towards him stalled his decision.

      “Not at all.  Actually, one could say I was the clearest thinker among my admittedly small circle of associates.”

One of the detective’s hands made its way into a pocket of his coat and extracted a pack of matches.  The other picked up his snifter of brandy and started it swirling within the glass.

      “I spoke to John once, after a case.  The husband had taken a lover and the wife did unspeakable things to both when she learned of the affair.  I doubt she will ever see the world outside of prison again for the heinousness of her acts.  But I had a difficult time understanding the viciousness and brutality of the crime.  How could something as common as an affair could drive an individual to such violence and savagery?  He explained that, for many, the sin of betrayal is experienced as a burning.  A searing fire that leaves nothing in its wake but pain and wounds that heal only poorly and with substantial scarring.  And, of course, no person should be expected to react in a reasonable and civilized fashion when they are being burned…”

Sherlock lit a match and used it to ignite the brandy fumes collected in his glass.

      “The room is warm, so the alcohol on your clothing should have evaporated a substantial portion of its volume into a vapor cloud around your body.  What say, brother… care to experience what burning feels like?”

Mycroft stared into the Sherlock’s bright, sharp eyes and felt something he had never experienced with him before this moment – fear.  Something was dreadfully wrong…

      “Sherlock, I will not… I have no basis for participating in this conversation for I am not party to the factors driving your delusions.  If you will simply put down the…”

      “I don’t ever think I have ever before heard your voice shake, Mycroft.  Interesting…”

      “Put the brandy down, Sherlock.”

      “Hmmmm… no.  No, I believe it is appropriate to leave it where it is.  This way I can make you twist in the wind at my whim.  Something with which you are quite familiar.”

Mycroft tried to move quietly away from his brother, but Sherlock’s tsk-tsk and tossing a second lit match directly onto his shirt made him freeze in place.

      “I have no idea what has happened to you, Sherlock, but put the brandy down and we shall discuss it.  I promise you my full attention and if you require outside assistance, I will happily ring John and…”

Another lit match landed on Mycroft, this time on his new silk tie.  How Sherlock learned to light matches with his thumbnail was baffling.

      “Me?  Nothing has happened to me, dear brother.  To Lestrade however…”

Mycroft’s current level of fear spiked at the thought of something happening to Gregory.

      “What has happened?  Is he ill?   Hurt?  Let me rise you infantile baboon!”

      “How amusing that you pretend to care even when it is only the two of us present, and both of us are keenly aware of the true situation.”

      “Sherlock, you must listen to me and understand that I am completely at a loss for the direction of your ravings.  Can we not discuss this like adults?  If something has happened to Gregory, time may be of the essence and…”

      “And that will not be your concern.  For you will neither speak to nor lay a hand upon Lestrade for the remainder of your soulless life.  He is to be considered sacrosanct for all methods of contact and you will do nothing… NOTHING… to punish him in his career for your deceit and callousness.  There will be no further warning, Mycroft.  Violate this mandate and I will take steps of such magnitude that you will have no choice but to resign your position in disgrace and fade into obscurity.”

The fire in the brandy snifter in no way matched the fire in Sherlock’s voice and Mycroft would never divulge to anyone the shriek that he emitted when Sherlock tossed the flaming brandy towards him.  That it landed harmlessly on his tiled floor was by no means an accident.  His brother’s aim was flawless.

      “No further warning, Mycroft.”

Sherlock spun on his heel and stalked towards the front door, and it was only through an undignified leap that Mycroft grabbed him before their next conversation had to take place in the street.

      “Take your hands off of me, defiler!”

      “Sherlock!  You will explain yourself or I will have you committed for psychiatric observation!”

      “Lestrade will have me released before I endure an hour’s confinement.  He knows I have been his friend in this business and would not permit your actions to go unchallenged, even if it meant having to stand in your presence and denounce you to the hospital administrator.”

Gregory… the root of Sherlock’s apparent psychosis was Gregory…

      “Sherlock, you need to tell me, very clearly, what has occurred with Gregory.”

      “How it sickens me to hear his name in your voice.  Fortunately, _he_ will never have the opportunity to hear your voice in his ear again.  Hear your slander and cruelty.  Hear you whisper endearments while you secretly laugh behind his back.”

A thick and ugly coil of tension began to grow in Mycroft’s stomach and he was not at all sure he wanted Sherlock to continue.

      “You must have a sickness, brother, that would allow you to take pleasure in betraying someone as decent and respectable as Lestrade.  To enjoy making him suffer.  Do you talk about him with your lover?  Giggle at his gullibility?  Laugh at the things he tries to do to prove his worth and demonstrate his affections?”

Lover… Sherlock knew…

      “Ah, the light dawns!  I see it in your eyes, Mycroft.  And already your mind is preparing a response to whatever evidence I might submit for my assumptions.  But, frankly, your efforts are wasted.  I am not your judge, Mycroft.  That role belongs to Lestrade and he has already pronounced you guilty.”

Gregory… no… NO!

      “You shared your deductions with him?”

      “He shared his _observations_ with me.  You were seen, Mycroft.  Sloppy, very sloppy… and now your little game is over, how sad.  I weep for your next victim.”

 Mycroft went to open his mouth, but feeling the bile rise up, it was all he could do to attempt to keep from shaming himself further in front of Sherlock.  Gregory had seen?  He knew?  Not Gregory… not his dear, dear Gregory…

      “Not caught out often in your philandering, I assume.  You are going rather, as they say, green around the gills.”

This was not supposed to happen!  Never!  Gregory was never supposed to know, let alone see!   This time the bile would not stay down and Mycroft barely made it to the toilet before he lost every bit of the expensive dinner he had consumed.  With Edgar.

      “Have you expired?  If so, I shall happily relay the good news to John and Lestrade.”

And, of course, John.  A man he considered a respected ally and thought that he might be earning such honor himself.  Mycroft hurled the first item his fingers touched against the door, but when the hand towel made barely an audible thump, he stretched out and kicked at the door instead.

      “Alive then.  Pity.  I am leaving to continue my interrupted meal with John.  You know my terms.  Ignore them at your peril.”

Sherlock was _not_ leaving!  Mycroft dragged himself up, threw open the door and nearly tackled his brother, shoving him into his study and onto the sofa in front of the fire.

      “You are not leaving until I fully understand what has happened.  How did Gregory learn of the situation?  Details, Sherlock!  I must know if this can be salvaged!”

Sherlock was certain the confusion and contempt he was feeling was properly presented by his expression, seeing Mycroft stiffen and snarl.

      “Salvaged?  Why on Earth would you want that?  Lestrade will not spread your tawdry secret, not that anyone of your circle would ever be found within a hundred meters of a policeman, unless said policeman was standing over their cooling corpse.  And I shall not permit Lestrade himself within a hundred meters of _you_ and have him revisit for a single second the hurts you have laid on him.”

Mycroft would applaud his brother’s protective streak at a later time, but now it was hindering his efforts.

      “Sherlock, things are not as they appear.  Gregory was never supposed to find out…”

      “Of course he was never supposed to find out!  What fun would that be?”

      “This is not fun!  This was never meant to hurt Gregory.  He was never supposed to discover my actions.  We were supposed to be together…. to be happy…”

      "HAPPY?  You destroy him multiple times over and you feel you deserve _happiness_?  Lestrade does, and I shall do what I can to facilitate that happiness.  And so shall John.  Lestrade and Arthur have become fast friends, as well, and he will lend enthusiastic support to any actions John or I might propose.  Go find your happiness with your current concubine and stay out of our way.”

      “Edgar is not my concubine.  He is not _anything_!”

      “Edgar?  Not the Edgar you paraded around like a peacock all over Europe?  The one you said was a spoiled popinjay, even though… ah… even though he was a man possessed of certain _talents_.  You throw over a man of quality for that wastrel?  His _talents_ must be quite special, indeed.  It is no wonder that you would gladly kiss him in the middle of a busy street where anyone might see.  And they did!  Delightful…”

Kiss… busy street… pieces began to fall into place and Mycroft was very glad he had nothing left in his stomach.

      “Gregory saw my embrace with Edgar this afternoon?”

      “Imagine his surprise.  Especially since you were not supposed to be in the country.  On another top-secret venture, as I learned.  No communication possible.  Poor Lestrade would not know such was never truly the case for you, but it did free you from worry that he would leave a text that your… if this wasn’t so pathetic it would be amusing.  You declare Lestrade a prostitute, yet you betray him for someone I have no doubt is correctly described by the term.  I know _you_ presented him with many fine gifts for the pleasure of his company.  Tell me, did Lestrade merit any gift for his efforts, or did you not even grant him that much acknowledgement?”

No… and Mycroft had not missed the small flash of hurt on hearing of his gift to Edgar for attending their first opera.  Ghastly cufflinks, but exactly what a man who valued cost more than worth would appreciate.  He had never thought to offer Gregory anything, their relationship was at such a delicate stage… but he _could_ have.  Arthur and Martin’s gift to him was something he would forever treasure and it was offered simply as a token of friendship and regard.  But it was also possible that such an action was not permissible given their situation.  What if Gregory interpreted the gesture as a signal that his own adornments were inadequate?  He already suffered from an insecurity in that area and the cost of a meal together was already something Gregory had difficulty accepting…  Damn it all!  He had no idea what was appropriate for a… for a true relationship.

And Gregory had _witnessed_ his betrayal.  Mycroft was not so proud that he would avoid the word or avoid the mental calculations of what such a scene would have done to his Gregory.  He had continued to disappoint the man and ignoring him on a night where he had gone to such lengths to make the evening special.  It had taken only a small look inside his refrigerator to witness the care and thought he had put into his meal, one that he had to enjoy alone.  Alone so he could spend time with people he loathed, even when they were not intoxicated nearly to the point of coma.  That, however had not stopped him from taking advantage of Gregory, had it?  Making use of his beautiful body for his own pleasure, then leaving him alone again because Edgar… was waiting for him here.  Fortunately, the man was too intoxicated to even begin to consider making sexual demands.  And then the capstone of his heartlessness, being so careless that Gregory had been forced to see the one thing that would confirm every fear and leave him utterly distraught.  Betrayal… that was precisely the right word.  Gregory had offered him everything, given again of his trust after the first betrayal, only to meet with a second that was even more brutal.

      “Nothing?  I’m not surprised.  Actually I am pleased for now I do not have to expend additional time removing the gift from Lestrade’s flat.  The man becomes strangely upset when let myself in when he is not at home.”

      “Gregory has not given me any sign that he would… that our relationship has moved to the stage where the offering of gifts is acceptable.”

      “Had and was Mycroft… past tense.  There is no present or future tense associated with your efforts to cripple him any longer.”

      “I HAVE NO WISH TO HURT HIM!”

      “Yet you are doing such a fine job.”

Mycroft hesitated a moment, then went through with pouring himself a fresh drink, pointedly not giving one to his brother.  Looking between his desk and the available armchairs and considering his state of his person, simply dropped onto the floor and stretched his legs out in front of the fire.  For his part, Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow, but such an uncharacteristic pose was enough to pique his curiosity.

      “You above all others, Sherlock, should know that appearances can deceive.”

      “I will grant that, however, given the sum total of current behaviors and your sordid sexual history, I doubt highly that you will successfully convince me that you have not returned Edgar Peterson to your life, despite the assurances given to Lestrade, John and myself that your intentions towards him were good and true.”

Mycroft took a very long sip of whatever alcohol he had poured and admitted that Sherlock’s words were accurate.  He also admitted that it was generally best to hold back some truth when interacting with another, but _generally_ did not mean _always_.  This was a time for complete candor.

      “I have reestablished my relationship with Edgar, that is true.  And, before you ask, that includes the physical aspects, as well.”

      “Then there is nothing further to say.”

      “There is a great deal more to say!  I will not delude myself that you will take my words at face value, but I would ask that you at least give an ear to them.  You are free to draw whatever conclusions you wish.”

      “This will not go in your favor, Mycroft.”

      “That is of no importance.  Your opinion of me is irrelevant and it is not as if you would repeat any of it to the one person whose opinion that is meaningful.”

      “It is your breath.  Feel free to waste it.”

      “Very well.  Edgar is a useless, vain, idiotic excuse for a man.  However, he moves in circles that place him in contact with persons of interest and that makes him useful in certain circumstances.  Even if he is unaware that he is being used.”

      “Oh, someone else you make a game of manipulating.”

      “When it benefits the security and welfare of the populace, yes.”

      “Are you attempting to convince me that your disgraceful behavior is a matter of national security?”

      “I am attempting to convince you of nothing, Sherlock.  I am simply laying out the facts.  Occasionally, I have spent time in his company when it has been the most expedient method to gain a morsel of information and… this was not a situation in which I had any expectation of participating actively.  It was not until the last moment that it was deemed necessary that my involvement be hands-on and primarily because of my prior contact with Edgar.  I reconnected with him during a trip abroad and expected that I would meet with him during a subsequent trip to further our association.  I did not anticipate that he would, instead, make a trip to London and that we would intersect at the opera.  It was regrettable that Gregory was there that night…”

The loud snort from the sofa prompted Mycroft to rephrase.

      “It was regrettable that Gregory had to be part of our interaction.  It was not intentional and I do not take pride in the slights and insults he received because of our meeting.  Unfortunately, that encounter prompted the timeline of my association with Edgar be expedited and starting that night, I began rebuilding our relationship with the purpose of establishing my own connections with certain persons that will lead to other persons… this game is large, Sherlock.  Very large and very delicate and possessing the potential to halt a great deal of damage that is being perpetrated against the government.  And I use the phrase ‘the government’ generically, since there are several that are caught in the hooks of this problem.”

      “So, keeping Edgar sexually satisfied is protecting the Crown.  How coincidental.”

      “Keeping him provided with sex, drugs, alcohol… whatever is required to secure the introductions that are required for this operation to flourish.  I do not exaggerate when I say the reward for victory is worth my debasement.”

      “And Lestrade’s?”

      “It has to be.  However, I did not foresee that he would suffer any injury from this initiative.  He was never to know.  On that you must believe me… he was never to know or feel any pain from my actions.  The dirt which soils me was never to touch him.”

      “And what is this game?  What is so significant that it is forcing you to attend parties, engage in sexual relations, enjoy and amuse yourself in a diverse body of hedonistic ways?”

      “Child trafficking.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to raise an eyebrow when Sherlock began to laugh.

      “Don’t be ridiculous.  You have no interest in human trafficking and the issue is not one that threatens any aspect of government.  As I thought, your lofty proclamations are nothing but falsehood.”

      “I have an interest when the children in question are being sold into the households of persons of influence and members of government and feed information back to their sellers.  No single piece of significance, but it is the totality and the patterns that can be gleaned for the political or economic arena that are potentially catastrophic.  Already markets are being swayed, key votes are being anticipated and leveraged.  No one suspects children, Sherlock.  As much as servants are considered non-entities, child servants are as noticed as a dust mote on the floor.”

      “The keeping of children as servants in a household must be illegal.”

      “Quite.  However, when has the legality of an action stopped it from being committed?   And you assume that all are contracted as laborers.  Many are kept for far more malignant purposes.  And any number of young persons may be mistaken for someone having reached their majority, especially if they are accompanied by convincing documentation.  This has compromised even respectable households who believe the honest wage they pay goes towards their employee and not those who own them.  Those who bought or stole them from their families.”

      “And Edgar is a part of this network.”

      “Not as such, but he is familiar with a number of those involved and can gain me access to them.  Already I have made strides in that direction, but a resolution will not come quickly.  This is a long-term operation and that cannot be changed.”

Sherlock sat, light chewing on his bottom lip, listening to his brother and reading every physical cue available.  For all of his affected composure, Mycroft was hurling signals to every corner of the room and Sherlock hated him for it.  For each signal said that Mycroft was telling the truth.

      “Then why not inform Lestrade?  As an officer of the law, he would likely understand, even if he did not approve.”

      “John is asked to conduct an operation for the military to assist with my current situation.  He, as I, would be required to use any available option to secure success.  How would you feel as weeks and months went by, knowing that other hands had touched him in intimate ways?  That the body that pleasured you at night was being given regularly to another?  That your time with him could be interrupted at any point and he would have to leave you and go into someone else’s arms?  How terribly would you ache, even knowing he worked for a higher purpose?  How often would you wonder if, just perhaps, that other life was offering him more than you do?  That the smile on his face when he answers his mobile is not a mental tool to sell his performance, but rather a true reflection of his happiness with the caller?  Would it not be better if he never told you?  Simply said he had an assignment that was time consuming, but left you with the reassurance that his love for you was unfailing and that the calls on his time pained him greatly for they tore him from your side?  Would that not be the kinder option?  And, when it had ended and he could return to you without distraction, there would be no breach.  No suspicion or seed of uncertainty.  That would have to be the better course of action…”

Sherlock would not think of that.  He could not… the image horrified him.  Perhaps… one night.  A weekend, if the need was great but… for months?  That was not something he could accept.  It was not something he thought he could _survive_ …

      “You are quiet, Sherlock.  It is a difficult thing to contemplate, isn’t it?  Do you think I did not lay awake at night trying to reconcile duty to the Crown with my… with what I feel for Gregory?  That I did not dissect every aspect of what I was doing and the dishonor it was to him?  But I truly believed I could minimize the fallout.  He would suffer neglect, but that would only stretch and bend what we were creating, it would not break it.  And I would have unlimited time afterwards to give him reason to forget all of the past missteps.  That was my plan… not that it is remotely feasible anymore.  Gregory will not forgive what he has seen and I cannot in any way fault him for it.  I did not want this for him, Sherlock.  For us.  I thought that, for once, I could have something real in my life.  Something that was not simply theater.  Something that was truly mine.  That would be a unique thing… to have something that was actually for _me_.”

      “That makes no sense.”

Mycroft’s brittle laugh sparked a flicker of disquiet in the young detective.

      “Says the man who has never lived at the service of others.  I am not a free man, Sherlock, nor have I ever been.  Yes, I wield a great deal of power, but not for my own gain.   For myself, I have little in the way of freedom, knowing that at any moment, I may be called upon to perform any manner of service that is required for the greater good.  But I had hopes… I can, to some degree, take certain liberties such as allocation of the resources I devote towards keeping a mindful eye on you and John.  And now Arthur and Martin.  I have never asked anything purely for myself, however, and I hoped that Gregory would fill that void in my life that craved being selfish.   I was allowed neither a selfish childhood, nor the rebellion of adolescence, but as I came to know Gregory, I grew to hope that I could finally turn away from the calls of responsibility and have something… someone… that could be for me.  And for no other purpose than I would be happy.  And I thought that I could do the same.  Make him happy, I mean.  Perhaps that was the critical mistake… thinking that even at this stage of my life I would be able to have a small piece of wonder to call my own.  Or that I could begin to provide that for someone as worthy as Gregory.  Yes… perchance it is not surprising that Fate intervened to take away from me the only person I have ever wanted to be part of my life.  Punishment for my hubris, with the extra torture of knowing that what I lost, I also wounded.”

Mycroft drained his glass and found he had no strength to pour himself another.  He was shocked then, when the glass was plucked from his fingers and it was returned refilled.

      “Your choices have brought you to this point, Mycroft and you have only yourself to blame.  That being said… I cannot entirely disagree that presented with a similar set of circumstances, I would not have made the same decision.  It is dishonorable and offensive, but had you not been discovered, it might have been the more compassionate choice.  I will not attempt to remedy this, however.  I will not in any way participate in any action that will prolong Lestrade’s distress.  Though you may have some excuse for this incident, as well as for each and every one of the future incidents that will undoubtedly occur, you cannot deny that your life is not suited to provide Lestrade with what he requires for contentment.  Honesty, stability, attention… if you cannot guarantee him those things, then it is for the best that you let this break remain unhealed.”

      “I believe you omitted affection from your list.”

Sherlock squirmed on the sofa and pressed his lips into a very juvenile pout.

      “It is nauseating, but that is the one thing I believe you are capable of providing him.  Do not broach this subject again with me.”

The tiniest of victories, but it was more than he had ever won with his brother.  Cold comfort that it was because Sherlock was likely correct.  Here was a lesson to be learned… if he could offer Gregory nothing besides affection, then it was best to let him go because Gregory deserved a whole man and a whole life… neither of which Mycroft was sure he would ever be able to provide.

      “I do not ask you to intervene, Sherlock, nor will I ask it of John.  What I do request is that you withhold information of this issue from young Arthur and ask Gregory if he would agree to do the same.  Although I will not argue against the position that I deserve his scorn, the sadness Arthur would experience is not something I can tolerate.  If Gregory is willing, I would ask that we simply inform him, at a later date, that with our hectic schedules we could not give each other the time we deserve and have agreed to amicably part company as romantic partners.  I predict that Arthur would react to that scenario far better than knowing the truth.”

      “On this I must, reluctantly, concur.  And I do not foresee Lestrade having issue with this solution.  He would not willingly commit any act that would upset Arthur to that degree.”

      “Thank you, Sherlock.  I…”

Sherlock had never heard that particular ringtone on his brother’s mobile, but the flare of disgust on Mycroft’s face let him know who was the caller.

      “I’ll leave you to your playacting.”

      “And I will leave you to return to John.”

Mycroft reached into his pocket and paused a moment before initiating a response to Edgar’s call.

      “I envy you, Sherlock.  If you ever require something to lord over me, you may use that simple truth… Ah, Edgar… of course I missed you…”


	23. The Darkest Nights Have the Brightest Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fortunately, typing uses none of the muscles relevant to shoveling a blizzard's worth of snow...
> 
> Continued and sincere thanks to all of those who share their thoughts and have been so generous with their encouragement... it definitely helps!

Why wouldn’t his hands stop shaking?  Sherlock was gone, he’d easily convinced Edgar that setting aside his duties to attend yet another social gathering was not possible and had changed into clean clothes.  The fire was warm and this snifter of his best brandy was being used for its intended purpose, as opposed to immolating him in his own home.  He was comfortable, led a luxurious life, could claim without arrogance that he made a true difference in the world… not a person in a million was so blessed.  Yet his hands would not stop shaking.

Nor would the sharp ache in his chest abate or the thick, cold and oily sensation in his stomach fade.  Gregory had seen him.  Seen him do what he did so well – succeed.  Place a goal in his path and there was no doubt in Mycroft’s mind that he would succeed in obtaining it.  He’d intended to portray a happy and affectionate partner and he had succeeded.  As was his nature, he rose to the challenge and emerged victorious.  As was his nature, he rose to any challenge and emerged victorious… until Gregory.  The one challenge that he had placed in a special category all its own and held, unlike any other, within his own heart.  And there was no fault for the failure but his own.  He’d made, for the first time, a purely selfish decision and it had turned on him with a weapon in each hand.  He’d wanted so desperately to maximize the chance that nothing of this matter would permanently mar his and Gregory’s growing relationship.  It had already been a struggle to ignore texts, stop himself making small gestures such as phone calls lest Gregory appear to occupy an exceptionally important position in his life.  Edgar had no concern over, as Mycroft described him, his bit on the side.  A common man who had no modesty and was more than willing to indulge anything Mycroft might desire.  He was a pet, a toy and that was something that a philistine like Edgar had no difficulty understanding and accepting.  It explained Gregory’s presence at the opera, a rugged and handsome man to have on his arm, and would cover for any intercepted messages or accidental spottings.  Gregory should have been kept ignorant, but still close enough to share precious moments of time that Mycroft had come to value beyond any price.  Time when he could simply be the man beneath the suit… something he had _never_ allowed himself to be.

But it was now a shredded dream, blowing away in far too many directions for him to ever be able to catch and reassemble the pieces.  Another lesson learned… he was not to wish or hope or dream because that was not a card present in the hand he had been dealt for this life.  He would continue to make the world a place where others could have those things and take pride and satisfaction from his work.  It was what he had always done.  The fact it would no longer be enough had no relevance.

He would not forsake Gregory, however.  He would ensure that Gregory’s life met with no substantial burden.  And it would be a small matter to send whispers through the air that put the right eyes on his career so that he advanced as was proper for someone of his experience and level of success and competence.  Nothing inappropriate, simply the recognition he deserved, but which could be overlooked since the man had no interest in nor talent for the politics of promotion.  And, perhaps… if he was graced by a copious bounty of good fortune… he could take tea again with the Detective Inspector.  Maybe that would a small enough thing that it would not fly in the face of the gods so he merited additional punishment for his unseemly wants…

__________

Why wouldn’t his hands stop shaking?  Two additional brandies into the night and he still could not stop them shaking.  A full and whole person could beg the company of a friend to sit with them and provide distraction or advice or… as difficult as it was to even think the word… comfort.  And now even the connection he had been developing with John had been broken and he would not dishonor the doctor by even asking that he not look upon him unkindly.  John was Gregory’s friend and Mycroft was very pleased that he would unfailingly offer much-needed support during this time of transition.  John would gladly be the friend to sit and entertain, console and buoy the spirits of the man whose smile would ever remain the brightest in memory.

Mycroft poured out the last of his brandy and wondered if he simply drank enough would he forfeit sufficient mental acuity that he would lose that memory. And the pain.  And the guilt.  And the deep and burrowing sense of loss.  No… that solution was not viable.  Even though they were masterful at handling Sherlock, even the combined efforts of Gregory and John would never be sufficient to keep his brother truly safe and secure.  Not with the targets Sherlock adored painting on his own back.  He must retain all mental sharpness, even with the personal cost that he would have to bear.

When his mobile sounded this time, Mycroft could not control the smile that slid across his lips.  _On the Good Ship Lollipop_ was simply the perfect ringtone…

      “Arthur, my dear, dear boy… how are you?”

      “Hi, Mycroft!  We’re in Bermuda and its brilliant!  It’s an island, did you know that?  I thought it was a part of Africa or something where they made the comfy shorts.  Which actually makes sense since Africa is hot and you need shorts when it’s hot, even though Skip still has to wear trousers since he gets quite the burn when he gets too much sun, which is a shame since his skin turns a very lovely shade of red like a box of Valentine’s Day chocolates.”

Maybe there was an overworked guardian angel somewhere that had an extra package of luck they were too busy to deliver properly and had decided to let it land on Mycroft’s shoulders instead.

      “Actually, I have visited Bermuda on several occasions.  It is a very agreeable location to spend some time.  Shall you be on site for long?”

      “Actually, we’re staying over tonight and maybe even tomorrow.  It depends on the client and I’m rather hoping that we get the extra day because Skip promised that we could go snorkeling and I found a book on fish and corals and sponges and anemones and sea cucumbers, which aren’t vegetables if you can believe that, and I’ve been studying it so I’ll know what I’m looking at.  Then I saw a fish that looked like you and I just had to call.”

And only from Arthur Shappey could that not be considered a questionable statement.

      “A fish that looked like me?”

      “Yes!  It was a lovely black, like one of your suits, but was white underneath, like one of your shirts, and it has big wings so it sort of flies under water all gracefully like you move around and it has a big spiky tail like one of your umbrellas and…”

      “My, to be likened to such an impressive creature.  I am flattered.”

      “Oh!  I’ll make a note to find a picture to send to you.  Or I can take a picture!  Are there cameras that take pictures underwater?  For regular people, I mean.  Not sailors in submarines.  Or mermaids.”

A quick note would have an assistant locating Arthur’s precise coordinates and having a waterproof camera delivered by morning.

      “I believe there are, now that you mention it.  I shall look into the matter and investigate the possibility of securing you the use of an appropriate model.  I would be most delighted to see what interesting creatures you find.  All properly identified, of course.”

      “BRILLIANT!  And I’ll make sure to label each picture and I can email them to you.  I’ll put them in order, too, so it will be like you right there with us paddling through the water.”

And there would be an attached travelogue accompanying the photographs that would be a moment-by-moment account of their snorkeling excursion.  Mycroft decided that whatever their client wished, the MJN crew would find themselves in Bermuda for that extra day.   Aircraft were so terribly prone to technical difficulties…

      “Excellent.  I am already looking forward to it.”

      “And you can ask Greg over to your house and he can look at them, too.  Maybe… oh, what a grand idea!  Maybe one day you can bring him here and you both can go snorkeling and see things first hand.  I think Greg would love the beach and I think you’d think he’d look nice in a pair of those comfy shorts.  Or swimming shorts.”

Arthur’s giggle was truly a rival to John’s.

      “I am unclear as to the availability of Gregory’s holiday schedule, but it something I can broach with him at some point.”

      “Okwhat’swronganddon’ttellmethere’snothingbecauseIcantellandlyingisn’tnice.”

      “Heavens, Arthur!  Was that the Queen’s English?”

      “It was.  I just had to say it fast in case you tried to interrupt me and do the word-dazzle thing you’re so good at and I would get distracted and go skipping down the wrong road… which can actually be a lot of fun since you find things you weren’t even looking for so everything you see is a big surprise and OOPS!  How did you do that?  You made me distract myself.  You’re not telepathic are you?  You can tell me if you are, because I’m very good at keeping secrets.  No, that’s not really true… I’m actually awful at keeping secrets but I like listening to them and don’t actually _try_ to give them away, because when someone tells you a secret it’s because they trust you and OOPS!  You’ve done it again.  I’m shutting up now.”

Mycroft contemplated asking Arthur to explain in detail how he had derived his conclusion, hoping he could parlay that discussion into a good hour’s worth of pleasant topics, but there was a significant possibility that Arthur would simply run the discussion in circles like a horse around a track, always ending up at the very unpleasant starting line.  Perhaps this was a time that Arthur could be satisfied with vagaries and generalities.

      “Nothing is wrong besides the fatigue that properly follows a day of turmoil.  Many irons in many fires, as they say…”

      “No.  That’s not it.  You haven’t sighed or yawned and, to be perfectly honest, that all sounded very much like a… hullaballoo.

Well, that made the entire matter perfectly clear.

      “Ok.  I’m a part-time detective assistant so I can do this.  Here we go.  You weren’t sounding particularly strange until I mentioned Greg, which makes me think that what’s wrong has to do with Greg.  And you’ve done some silly things where he is concerned before and you want him to be your serious boyfriend, so I would deduce that you have once again jeopardized your relationship with Greg and if that’s the case then… you and I have to consider a serious chat about what it means to be a good boyfriend because, obviously, you haven’t a clue.”

How typical that Arthur, of all people, could cut straight to the heart of his problem.

      “I shall offer my agreement for the latter part of your argument, but there is nothing about which you should be perturbed.  All paths to any summit have some degree of, shall we say, heterogeneity…”

      “No we shall not.  Because I don’t know what that means.”

      “Rocky roads are far more common than those that are smooth.”

      “Oh!  Well, that’s very true.  Skip is always complaining that the roads are in terrible shape and he gets bounced around in his van so much his bum aches sometimes.”

      “And such is the same for matters of a personal nature.  Your own journey to win Martin’s affections was in no way straightforward or without difficulties.  One must expect that situation to correctly describe most burgeoning relationships.”

      “You’ve lost your lilt.”

      “Pardon?”

      “It’s been fading and now it’s completely gone.  When you’re happy, you have such a nice way of saying your words, but when you’re not happy, it all goes sort of flat even when you’re smiling when you’re talking.  So I know that you’re trying to make me think that there’s nothing big that’s wrong, but that makes me think it’s something VERY big that’s wrong.  So, don’t try and fool me, Mycroft.  You might be in charge of London _and_ the smartest man in the world, don’ttellMr.Sherlockbecausehe’llgetstroppy, but I’m the one that’s got the advanced training in understanding people.  That’s why we have to have little talks like this.  So… start talking.”

Mycroft had disabused himself of the idea of being able to laugh for a very long time, but he had to pull the mobile away from his ear and hold it to his chest so as not to offend a very serious Arthur.  What was not terribly funny, though, was that Arthur had, as he was so uniquely skilled, pushed directly through his distractions, with no intention of letting him continue to weave his tangled web.

      “As always, Arthur, you have exposed my pitiful attempts to circumvent your formidable skills.”

      “I’m going to say Hurrah! and hope I understood you correctly.  Now, get your gums flapping.”

      “Really, Arthur…”

      “I know, I know… we watched a lot of detective films last week and… I’m not very good at the lingo yet.  But I used lingo right, didn’t I?”

      “That you did.  And perhaps practicing your film noir dialect would be a more productive use of your time than…”

      “Nope.  Not at all.  Don’t even try.  I’m going to say something awful now, Mycroft, to show you how serious I am about this.  Are you ready?”

      “Am I being presented with a choice?”

      “No.  But it wouldn’t be polite not to ask.  Ok, here goes.  You’re having a problem with Greg and it sounds like a big one that’s making you unhappy and I don’t think you have anyone to talk to about it except me, which is really, really sad, but just as really, really true.”

At some point he would have to put Arthur on the government payroll, if for no reason than he could probably be presented with a situation of any complexity and find the golden kernel lying at the bottom in under ten seconds.  But he would never lay _this_ burden on sweet Arthur’s tender…”

      “I am waiting, Mycroft.  And if I have to, I will make sure to come to London as soon as we get back and then I will lock you inside and make you tell me what’s going on.  And, though I may not appear so, I am a very vicious tickler.  Skip can’t keep any secret from me when I resort to tickling and I won’t have _any_ problem tickling you, Mycroft.  You’re tall, too, so there’s lots more skin to tickle.  Now, you don’t really want things to come to that, do you?”

Mycroft was very confident that he did not.  Especially since it was extremely well-kept secret that he was more than a bit ticklish in certain places and he had no doubt that Arthur would unerringly find each one.

      “Arthur, my dear boy… I will admit that there is a situation with Gregory and myself and I will also admit that it is of my doing.  However, would you simply take me at my word when I say that it is not something for which you want to be drawn in as my confidant?  I do not want to distress you and you will undoubtedly become greatly distressed if you are party to all relevant information.”

      “That’s actually very nice, Mycroft.  Trying to not make me sad, I mean, but I’d rather be sad and have the chance to help than be happy and leave you sad with no help.  _Much_ rather.  So… I’m still waiting.  And I can wait a very long time.  I’m on my mobile so I can even go out sightseeing or shopping or for a little snack and still be waiting and won’t you feel silly.”

Scenario 1 – dissemble to the best of his ability and still be pressed to the wall by the jolliest interrogator in the history of mankind.  Scenario 2 – lay out the truth and hear every crack of Arthur’s breaking heart.  Since Scenario 2 would be the inevitable conclusion of Scenario 1, there was not really a choice in this matter.  Yet another person he was going to hurt.  And another who would likely abandon him lest he muddy their lives any further.

      “As you wish.  But do remember that I duly warned you about the outcome of receiving this knowledge.”

      “I can take it, Mycroft.  Gimme all you got.”

      “That was much better, actually.”

      “Do you really think so?  Brilliant!”

__________

      “Oh dear… all you got is rather a lot, isn’t it?”

      “Putting it mildly.”

Mycroft had thought to simply lay out a distasteful tale of infidelity, but his mind once again took its own initiative and circumvented his conscious wishes and began to let the whole tale flow and national security be hanged.

      “Ok… oh… this is more than rather a lot… but… for the very big lot it is, it all seems like you’re trying to do good things.  Even though you’re doing some very upsetting things to do the good things, it’s still good things you’re trying to do.  Not that I approve of the upsetting things at all.  Not one tiny bit.  I mean the thought of you and Greg kissing makes me want give Skip his own kiss because I’m so happy, but you and that _person_ … ugh.  It’s like I ate something that didn’t agree with me, and you can imagine how awful it has to be for _that_ to happen.  And Greg must feel nearly a million times worse!  But… you’ll stop those people, won’t you Mycroft?  The ones hurting the little kids?  I can’t imagine something like that happening, I mean… why would people want to hurt little kids?  It doesn’t make any sense, but if someone is doing that, they have to be stopped and maybe they’re a little wrong in the head and need some help themselves and the faster they get that the faster they can be good people again.”

      “I am endeavoring to bring an end to the situation as quickly as possible, Arthur.  On that you have my word.”

      “Well, that’s a point to you.  And I know that you’re really hurting having to do this and not being with Greg, don’t think I don’t know that for a single second… but poor Greg!  He must feel awful!  I won’t honey-coat this, Mycroft, I know you thought you were doing a good thing, but you really should have talked to me first so I could have told you that your idea was more than a bit off-footed.  I mean, now all Greg knows is that you’re going on dates with someone else and that you’ve been horrid to him and… oh… I need a little moment…”

That was acceptable, because Mycroft needed one of his own.  Arthur wasn’t deserting him.  Mycroft had no idea how a heart so large could fit into a normal human body, but he was not going to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth.  Not when he had lost everyone else…

      “Ok, I’m back… I’m going to ask you a question Mycroft.  Well, maybe two.  And I want you to tell the most honest truth you’ve ever told to anyone in the whole world ever.  Ready?”

Mycroft truly was not certain.

      “I am ready as I can be at this point.”

      “Good enough.  First question – do you want to get Greg back.  And I mean for good.  To be very serious boyfriends or even more, not just film pals or something?”

Arthur was to begin receiving a government stipend with the start of business tomorrow.  The term “consultant” would be used on the human resources forms.  For now, though, Mycroft simply had to analyze the entirety of his feelings for Gregory, visualize a future that both contained and omitted him and weighed his limits for actions to secure the man to his side.  It actually surprised Mycroft not at all that the answer came to his lips without any of the evaluation he had planned.

      I do.  I wish for that more than I have ever thought I could wish for anything.  I would give everything I owned and do anything in my power to keep him in my life until we both are well-provided with silver hair.”

      “Oh!  That’s so romantic…  that’s what I want for me and Skip, too.  How much fun would that be?  Being old gents together, after being young gents together and… in-between gents together… Then here’s my second question.  And you have to be honest about this, too.  Are you sure you can do that for _two_ serious questions?”

“I feel that I am capable of distributing my natural supply of honesty equally between two serious questions.”

Brilliant!  Then, can I help you get him back?”

__________

It took a good thirty seconds for Mycroft to respond, so thoroughly had he been rendered speechless.

      “You… you want to help me win back Gregory?”

      “Of course!  You’ve not been very good to him, Mycroft, but I can tell that you’re sorry for how you’ve made him feel and I think that if you had a chance you would make things better.  It might take a long time, but you said you were willing to do anything, so waiting shouldn’t be that hard.”

      “I _would_ do anything, Arthur… within limits that _I_ do not impose.  You must realize.  I cannot do anything to compromise my current operation.”

      “Oh, I understand that completely!  Those poor kiddies… you _have_ to help them.  That’s why I’m going to help _you_.  You won’t have time to get Gregory back on your own, so you’ll need help.  And… oh, this is so sad… I’m worried that Doctor Watson won’t want to help you since he might not get the full super-secret story from Mr. Sherlock.  So you’ve got to have me do it!  Brilliant!  I got Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Watson together as boyfriends and I’ll get to do the same for you and Greg.  Next time Mum says I’m not good for anything but shade, I’ll tell her how wrong she is!

      “You… you are good for a great many things, Arthur.  Please do not let anyone make you feel otherwise.”

It was not Arthur’s fault that his talents and skills were best visible if you granted him the patience to allow for a full and colorful demonstration.

      “Thanks Mycroft!  And I have your 100% word that you care about Greg so much that you want be an old gent with him, right?  Last chance to change your mind…”

Mycroft would never change his mind about wanting that, however, he had no idea how that future could be possible.

      “You have my word as a gentleman.”

      “Then, I’ll get right on it.  Well, as soon as we get back from Bermuda.  No… Brilliant!  I’ll get started while I’m here.  And, you’re going to have to do things to, but not right now.  I’ll let you know when.  And don’t worry that I’ll tell Greg your super-secret secret, though I still don’t understand why you don’t want him to know now, since… well, since the kitty cat’s long out of the bag.”

      “The delicacy of this situation cannot be overstated, Arthur.  If Gregory was apprised of the facts, his pattern of behavior would change and I have no doubt there are eyes on him as an associate of mine.  At this point, we will be seen to have a falling out and that will put him exterior to the game, which will actually be to his benefit.  And, though I trust _him_ implicitly, I have little doubt that his curiosity would get the better of him, at least to the point of posing a number of queries or conducting information searches that, while he would see little in them to arouse suspicion, would likely raise questions among those whom I currently pursue.  They monitor closely any and all information sources that could compromise their endeavor and I have no doubt they have assistance in law enforcement agencies in many countries.  I cannot take the risk, Arthur.  Neither for this operation, nor for Gregory’s safety.”

      “Oh… well… I’m sure you know what’s best for all of that.  The government part, I mean.  But you’re not much of an expert when it comes to Greg, so it’s lucky you have me.  He’ll think I don’t know, right?”

      “That was the agreement I proposed.  I assume he would honor it as it would have benefitted you.”

      “I’m not a piece of glass, Mycroft.  Though… oh, wouldn’t that be brilliant!  All shiny and glittery like a nice piece of glass.  I’d want to be one with lots of colors and sparkles and maybe like they do with those big globes that have snorkeling scenes or flowers or big swirls that look like the box of ribbon candy Mum bought me once when we flew to Boston.  Not the time with that awful man that I sort of killed, but another time.”

Mycroft remembered fondly reading that particular report.  Arthur was truly a treasure… which reminded him of the artist that created the custom-made paperweight on that rested on his desk.  The man would surely appreciate another commission.  Perhaps for a detailed scene of a coral reef and its denizens…

      ‘I know you are quite hardy, my boy, but I do prefer to see you happy than not.  I apologize if I offended.”

      “No offense.  It was actually quite nice of you to think of me.  But that’s bubbles under the bridge.  Now, it’s Operation Getting Back Greg and I’m in charge.  So, I’m going to go and do some thinking with my notebook since I’m not very sleepy and I have seven new songs that I want to listen to on my phone.  Are you going to be ok now, Mycroft?  It’s… oh, it is rather late in London isn’t it.  I’ll bet you’re ready for your pajamas and a good night’s sleep.”

Surprisingly, Mycroft _was_ better.  And strangely confident in the future.  Which was ridiculous.  And not the product of any reasonable calculation.  But this was _Arthur_ …

      “I think I shall be far more, as you say, ‘ok’ than I would have been had you not contacted me.  Arthur… are you starting to develop your own magical ability?”

      “Hah!  That would be brilliant!  But… maybe I am.  Or I’m just using some of yours since we’re family now and I’m positive that magic runs in families.”

      “No doubt you are correct.  Regardless, I must thank you for your scintillating conversation.  I am always gladdened by the sound of your voice.”

Which was nearly a lifeline right now.

      “Me too… and you’ve got your lilt back!  Hurrah!  And don’t worry, Mycroft. I’m going to do my best to see that you don’t ever lose it again.  Now, you get some sleep so you feel good tomorrow and I’ll start my planning.”

      “I shall do as you advise.  Goodnight, Arthur.  And enjoy your snorkeling trip tomorrow.”

      “I will!  Well, if we’re still here… And goodnight to you too, Mycroft.  I’ll talk to you very, very, very soon.”

Things of which Mycroft Holmes was certain.  One, the quality of Arthur’s battle plans would be top notch.  Two, if there was any hope of reclaiming Gregory’s affections he would require assistance of the type Arthur Shappey was uniquely qualified to provide.  Three, Arthur Shappey would be snorkeling in Bermuda tomorrow.  


	24. Many Small Plasters Can Staunch Large Wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this is not completely coherent, blame the outcome on a component of a body's weight exceeding the force of friction directed up the incline of an icy roof... I love winter!
> 
> I know I say it often, but it is always sincere - thank you all for your encouraging words and continued support!

      “Do I want to know where you’ve been?”

John set aside the dish he’d been drying and greeted Sherlock with quick kiss before getting the kettle started.

      “I visited both Lestrade and Mycroft.  The matter is concluded.”

      “Really?  Are both of them still alive?”

      “Lestrade is fine.  Mycroft is, unfortunately, also fine, though he will have to answer a number of uncomfortable questions about the bruise he will be wearing for the next few days.  And I nearly set him on fire.  But, all in all, he is functional.”

John gaped and tried to think of something to say, but not much came to mind.

      “Ok, then.”

      “And Lestrade will be joining us for an evening this week.  He has agreed to my prohibitions against certain entertainment options and will plan the remaining details with you.  You should do this tomorrow when you phone to evaluate his emotional status.”

      “You’re telling me to call and check up on him?”

      “Naturally.  He was in a better frame of mind when I left that when I arrived, but without my steadying presence he could easily backslide into melancholy.  You must be vigilant and continually monitor his mental state.”

If that wasn’t a statement of loving concern, John would be painted green and put in a plant pot.

      “That’s a grand idea.  Both the evening in and the keeping an eye on Greg.  He’s been through so much… and Mycroft knew that, the bastard.  He _had_ to know what this would do to Greg if he found out he’d been keeping someone else on his arm.”

Of that, Sherlock could express some doubt.  His brother was completely unbearable but was never one to overlook details.  His interactions with Lestrade, however, were marked by errors and instances of compromised judgment and miscalculation.  Sherlock could not recall any time in Mycroft’s life where he had made so many mistakes.  Truly, Mycroft’s skills for keeping a worthy partner happy were pathetic.  Unlike his, which were quite acceptable if John’s continued and contented presence was any indication.

      “You are confusing Mycroft with a standard example of a human being.”

John prepared two cups of tea and thought about what Sherlock had just said.  Maybe that was part of his problem.  Sherlock was not a standard example of a human being, so why shouldn’t he believe the same of Mycroft?  It had taken him a long time to understand the real Sherlock and he’d thought, at least recently, that he was beginning to see the real side of Mycroft Holmes, but Mycroft had likely faked that, too.  Maybe there wasn’t even a real and honest side of Mycroft to be found.

      “Yeah… you’re probably right.  Won’t be making that mistake again.”

      “That would be wise.”

While John got the milk, Sherlock ran his and Mycroft’s conversation through his mind.  As much as it pained him, he had to admit that of all the things he would never have expected, Mycroft had very much behaved like a standard human being once he learned of his exposure.  Pure emotion… nothing at all like his brother’s normal behavior.  And it wasn’t contrived… for all Sherlock would have wished it were.

      “John, would there ever be a reason… could there be a circumstance in which you would be unfaithful to me.  Not that we have actually agreed upon exclusivity, but I have been operating under the assumption that you would expect that to be a condition of our relationship.”

      “Ye-eah… I _am_ rather expecting that I’m the only one rumpling up your sheets.”

      “But could there be a time where you would break that agreement?”

      “Are you asking if I’m going to cheat on you?”

      “ _If_ is not, perhaps, the best word.  _Could_ is the heart of my question.”

John had no idea what was racing around Sherlock’s head, but he decided that this situation with Lestrade must be affecting the detective more than he would have expected.  Actually, he should have expected it.  Sherlock’s own emotions were still running slightly ahead of his reason so an emotional firebomb would have some impact on him, even if he wasn’t the intended target.

      “I can’t think of any.  Well, not any that didn’t involve your life or something.”

      “So you could?”

      “Yes, Sherlock.  If I was presented with the option of watching you die or shagging your potential killer, I would be bollocks-bare faster than you can say lubricant.”

      “Ah.”

Being studied as if he were an interesting bug was annoying, but John was quite used to it by now.

      “Would it mean anything to you?”

      “What in the world?  Sherlock… did Mycroft say something to you?”

Mycroft had said many things, most of which he would not repeat to John.

      “He said that Edgar did not mean anything.”

      “Edgar… that’s the tosser’s name?  Sounds pompous enough for the likes of Mycroft.  And Mycroft said he didn’t mean anything, huh?  Don’t worry, Sherlock, that’s the standard party-line for cheaters.”

      “So, it’s never true.  Sexual encounters always are meaningful.”

      “God no.”

      “You are being quite obtuse, John.”

      “Ok, it’s like this.  No, not all sexual encounters have meaning.  Quick one-night things, for example.  But what I saw didn’t indicate a quick one-night encounter.”

      “It is not.  It is an ongoing association.”

      “Then there you have it.  Lying bastard.  You don’t keep something going unless it means _something_.”

      “Then the concept of a casual relationship is a fabrication?”

      “Well… ok, not always.  Sometimes that works out fine.  But you sort of agree to that beforehand.  Look, none of this is simple and I’m sure I’m doing a crap job of explaining, but if Mycroft is trying to tell you that he cares for Greg and not to mind the other bloke he’s shagging, then he’s more insane than I thought.  That’s just not the way it usually goes.”

      “Usually?  Why did you qualify your statement?”

      “Uh… well… it _can_ happen, but the circumstances are pretty extreme.”

      “Expand.”

      “I’d rather not.”

      “Notice that ‘not’ wasn’t presented as a choice.”

      “Prat.  Fine… For instance… you’re overseas, under very high-stress conditions, you’re lonely and scared and bored and frustrated and your wife or husband or boyfriend/girlfriend is thousands of miles away…”

      “And you engage in infidelity.”

      “I’m not saying it’s common, but it _does_ happen and the person involved doesn’t necessarily love the one at home any less.  They’re just not there…”

      “And do they return and inform their loved one of their indiscretions?”

      “Not if they want to keep their head attached to their bodies.”

      “Do they discuss the matter beforehand?  Outline that their faithfulness may be compromised during their absence?”

      “Not if they want to keep their other head attached to their bodies.  Who in their right mind would agree to let their partner cat about and then come home as if nothing happened?  Look, I’m not saying it’s right… it’s not.  It’s not fair and it’s not right, but… it happens.  Sherlock, please tell me you’re not worried that I’ll be the next one carrying on in secret.  That’s not going to happen, love.  I have no intention of being with anyone else, for any reason.”

Sherlock had no doubt of John’s sincerity.  He just wished he also had doubt about what John had to say before that statement of commitment.  He most certainly did not want more data that Mycroft’s ridiculous plan had more merit that he’d assumed.  Not that Lestrade was anything like the average person, but the likelihood that he would be strongly bothered by an upfront admission by Mycroft was increasing.  The probability that he would have severed ties was high and… his brother had feared that outcome.  Feared the loss of whatever relationship he and Lestrade had been forming and from what Sherlock had observed, that fear was strong.  The idiot… it would stand to reason that the first decision Mycroft ever made based on sentimentality would lead to chaos.

      “I know, John.  On that I have no uncertainty.  I am simply trying to better understand Mycroft’s actions.”

      “Why?  You’re the one who told me he couldn’t be trusted to do right by Greg.”

      “True, but I have also never known him to be in a situation such as he had with Lestrade.  They were cordial, even friendly, for quite awhile before their relationship took a different turn.  It was a change of pattern and I am attempting to ascertain how his former behaviors fit with this new puzzle.  Nothing more.”

      “Well, don’t give it too much thought.  He got caught with his pants down and now the only thing we have to worry about is putting Greg back on the horse so he can get on with the rest of his life.  I’m glad you’re taking an active part of that, Sherlock.  I know it means the world to Greg.  Now, drink up and I’ll show you just how glad I am.”

      “Is that yet another way of indicating we are going to have sex?”

      “Yes.”

      “Is it necessary that I finish my tea first?”

      “I think the monarchy will survive if you don’t.”

__________

Lestrade contemplated begging off work with a claim of imminent and contagious death, but decided that a full day’s toil might be the distraction that he needed to keep his feet on the path.  At least he had gotten a few hours of sleep last night after his talk with Sherlock, surprising as that was.  The talk had helped, the sleep had helped and even the ever-present Kilimanjaro of paper on his desk was helping.  He still had friends, still had his job, still had… well, he wouldn’t say sex appeal, but he’d at least _had_ sex recently, which was a far cry from the last few… many months.  There had to be someone else out there who wanted a piece of a mature man with a good job and healthy interest in physical pursuits.  Just had to give himself a little while to pull his pieces back together and then he’d get out there and put himself out on the market again.  Just needed a little time.  Not much, just a little.  One or two days.  Maybe three for good measure.  Surely not more than four or five…

The love-hate relationship Lestrade had with the email notification sound on his computer was near-legendary.  He had changed it a hundred times, hauling technicians up from the bowels of the building on many occasions to bring him new options since all the current ones sounded either accusatory or contemptuous.  Now, he decided that his next move would be to have custom sounds assigned to certain addresses.  For example, under no circumstances should an email from Arthur Shappey sound the same as one from yet another member of the disgruntled citizenry of London.

_Greg!  I’m going snorkeling today!  Isn’t that brilliant?  Yes is its, so I don’t know why I even bothered to ask.  Anyway, I am going to call you later to talk and tell you about my trip, but I need to you call Mycroft and talk to him.  I talked to him last night and something is very wrong and I really think he needs someone to talk to.  I’d do it myself, but I have my snorkeling trip and Mycroft got me an underwater camera and wants to see my pictures, with all the names of the fishes too, so I have to do that first, but I think he needs to talk to someone now.  He sounded terrible!  Sad and lost and it was all I could do not to order one of those ‘Feel Better Soon!’ gift baskets to send him, even though they are usually sent to sick people, but I don’t know why they couldn’t be sent to sad people, too.  I’ll ask you what he said when I call you later to talk about fish.  Bye!_

What in the world?  Lestrade read through Arthur’s message three times before sitting back, still having no idea about what was going on.  Mycroft sad?  That was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.  He had Prince Boy Toy to keep him happy… But Arthur wouldn’t say Mycroft was upset unless he actually _was_.  And… Mycroft was a master of hiding emotions, so if Arthur picked up on them, Mycroft either _couldn’t_ hide them or didn’t care if Arthur knew.  What in the world could have happened that would make Mycroft so upset it had bled into a conversation with Arthur, something, Lestrade had to grudgingly admit, Mycroft would be desperate to shield the lad from.  It was too early in the morning to deal with Sherlock, but… there was no doubt Arthur would call later and he should at least have something to build a story on.

      “Good.  I need a case immediately.  John has insisted that I accompany him to purchase towels.”

      “Well, I don’t have a case, so you’re out of luck, but why is John on the warpath over towels?”

      “He has become unduly perturbed that I used our towels to clean a small spill.”

      “Of what?”

      “Cow’s blood.”

      “How much?”

      “Not more than a quart.  Or several.”

      “Well, then it’s good I don’t have anything for you since you need to be standing there smiling, holding your arms out so John can load you up with new towels that you bloody well pay for!  They’ve got the paper ones for cleaning up nasty things like that.  You’re sure it didn’t have any diseases or anything, right?”

      “Such as what?  Hoof and mouth?  Is this the purpose of your call?  Getting all of the stupidity out of your brain for the day so as to avoid looking idiotic if you are actually called to face the public?”

Far too early to deal with Sherlock.

      “Actually, I was calling to find out why Arthur would email me and say that Mycroft was upset.  Apparently, Arthur called him last night and got worried because Mycroft sounded off.  Well, he actually said sad, but who know what that actually means.”

      “Did he have details?  Did he say anything specific to you?”

Sherlock almost sounded anxious, but Lestrade figured it made sense.  Sherlock cared for Arthur more deeply than he would like it known and anything that disturbed Arthur would definitely concern Sherlock.

      “No, just that Mycroft sounded poorly and wanted me to find out.  I’m guessing that you might have some information about that subject.”

      “Not an unreasonable assumption, I suppose.”

      “So, let’s hear it.”

      “I simply did as I told you.  I informed Mycroft that his presence in your vicinity would not be tolerated and provided, in detail, the reasons for this decision.”

      “Well, _that_ wouldn’t upset him.  Something else must have set him off.  So, keep going.”

      “We talked about many things Lestrade, all of which I have deleted as they were tedious and incalculably boring.”

      “That wasn’t even as good as your worst attempt at lying.”

      “I blame John.”

      “I’m sure he won’t be surprised.  Come on, Sherlock.  Tell me what’s going on.”

Sherlock was quite glad Lestrade was not in the room with him to see his small dance of frustration, for which he blamed, this time, Arthur.

      “I simply laid out what had transpired and the consensus opinion that he would spend eternity in the circle hell reserved for traitors and adulterers.”

      “Hah!  I like that… but besides being irritated at being caught out, that’s not going to make a dent in that fucking glacier of a man.”

It _would_ make a dent.  A massive dent the likes of which Sherlock had not thought possible with his brother.

      “Sherlock?  You can’t possibly tell me Mycroft was upset that I found out about his philandering?  Maybe he was a little embarrassed that he’d been that careless, but I wasn’t important enough to him to really care that I’d learned the truth.”

      “Deriding yourself cannot be conducive to putting yourself back on the horse, so you should cease at once.”

      “What horse?”

      “I actually don’t know, but it seemed to have meaning to John.  Regardless, I will not have you committing self-insult, and for your information, Mycroft was quite unnerved and affected by his discovery.”

      “Ok, so he felt a little foolish that he’d been seen…”

      “Mycroft does not waste what tiny emotional reserve he possesses on something of little importance to him and being caught in a meaningless deception would not qualify as important.  Your opinion of him, therefore, would have to classed as significant.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure if this was the proper method of keeping Mycroft and Lestrade apart, but allowing the DI to think ill of himself was not acceptable.

      “You’ve gone loony.  If I meant anything to him…”

      “I am not recanting my opinion of his behavior, I am simply reporting that he was not unaffected by the severance of your relationship.  Therefore, you should not look upon yourself unkindly.  Very, very little is sufficiently significant to impact my brother on a personal level.”

This truly did not seem to be the best way to assure the permanent separation of his loathsome brother and Lestrade, but… where in the world was John?  Why wasn’t he eavesdropping, now that his nosy-parkering could be useful?

      “Huh… that’s… that’s all well and good and maybe it’s justice that he’s getting a little acid in his gut over all of this.  I guess that explains what Arthur was talking about and I have to assume Mycroft didn’t give him any details, which I can’t fault him for.  The boy does not need this weighing him down.”

      “Actually, I had wanted to speak with you on that issue.  Mycroft asks for a truce in the area of Arthur.  He would like an agreement that Arthur not be apprised of your situation until such time as you both inform him that you are separating based on lack of sufficient time for your relationship to prosper.  He feels that this course of action would be gentler on Arthur and enable him to keep ties with both of you, which would be best for all concerned.”

      “He asked for that?  Much as I hate to say it, I have to give Mycroft credit for having a good idea.  I wasn’t sure what I was going to tell Arthur about us, especially since I have to sit on the phone with him tonight.  Yeah, I can agree to that.  As much as Mycroft’s been a complete bastard to me, he’s been good to Arthur and I would never want that to change.  That affection… that’s real.  And good for him finding another person, besides you, that he truly loves.  And shut it with the puking noises!  He does love you.  Always has.  I won’t take that away from him… he has always loved you, no matter what shape you were in or what you were screaming or throwing at him.  I know you think sometimes he can’t feel love, Sherlock, but he can.  He loves you fiercely and now, he’s added Arthur to his list.  Who knows, maybe someday he’ll find someone besides family he can love.”

John was going to pay for his inattention.  He had yet to pester or browbeat once and put himself in a position to be ensnared into this conversation.  Should he say anything?  How could he open that door without allowing everything else to escape?  Would it hurt Lestrade more to know that Mycroft’s feelings and affections were real, but that he chose duty over him?  And it was more than likely that Mycroft would cut off access to his finances and incarcerate him where not even light could find him if he leaked information that made his disgusting association with Edgar Peterson a moot point.  The middle road.  He would take the middle road and try to keep the status quo intact, but with a minimum of… fuss.

      “Mycroft will receive in life what he most surely deserves.  So long as he continues to watch over Martin and Arthur, I am completely uninterested in his future.  You feelings should be similar.”

Lestrade had to agree… but it was nice, at least, to know that he wasn’t the only one hurting over their disastrous attempt at a relationship.  Not that it changed anything, but… it was just nice to know.

      “Sure… sure. Ok, now I can have my evening with Arthur and have something of a clue about what’s going on.  I’ll tell him that Mycroft just had a bad day and took awhile to shake it off.  And, I guess that I’ll have to talk to Mycroft at some point and get a plan and timeline together to give the boy the bad news.”

      “I shall do that…”

      “No… I can do this, lad.  I want to, actually.  Prove to myself that I can be an adult about all of this.  Just an over-the-phone thing, so don’t worry he’ll be pulling me into his sleek sedan to compromise my virtue.”

      “If you feel it is necessary.”

      “I do.  But I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate your efforts to watch out for this old man.  I appreciate them and I will never forget them.  Now, shouldn’t you be choosing towel colors by now?”

Sherlock wondered if it was normal to feel his skin get hot as he listened to Lestrade’s words.  Perhaps he should ask John… that traitorous, traitorous John Watson who should be here to explain things as Sherlock experienced them.

      “One would think so, however, John seems to have abandoned me for the time being.”

      “Take a sniff and tell me what you smell.”

Ridiculous and… sausages.

      “John is cooking.”

      “It’s breakfast time for normal people, though John usually does a fry-up earlier than this.”

      “We had a late start to our morning.”

      “Do I want details?”

      “Doubtful.”

      “Then I’ll leave you to it.  But we’re still on for this week, right?”

      “Yes.  John is still tasked to set the parameters of the activities.  Give my regards, tonight, to Arthur.  I received a text to say that he is going to be ‘playing with fishes,” which I assume does not refer to dinner.”

      “They’re snorkeling.  And, of course, Mycroft had to give him a new toy – one of those cameras you take scuba diving.  Oh listen to me… good for him getting to enjoy his little trip as much as he can.  Mycroft is apparently pretty good at giving out toys, so I’m glad Arthur’s getting the benefit of his generosity.”

Sherlock was also not certain if the ugly clench in his chest was normal, but he was lucky his partner was a doctor who could answer these questions.  It suddenly made Sherlock very discontent that Mycroft’s peacock had received many expensive gifts and Lestrade, the one for whom Mycroft had actually claimed feelings, had received nothing as a token of regard.  Damnable John! Frying sausages when there were far more important matters at hand!  John… he had not provided John with gifts, besides flowers, and gifts were apparently a primary overture to indicate affection.  He could purchase John a new jumper.  Many new ones... his old ones were horrid anyway or perhaps a new kettle… towels!  He could get Lestrade more towels.  The man had only a single faded green towel to his name and they were shopping for towels anyway today… Towels and jumpers and a kettle and…”

      “Sherlock!  Are you still there?”

Yes… and with a shopping list.  Oh!  and shampoo.  John was ranting about shampoo yesterday.  Which was hypocritical since it was _he_ that was too shortsighted to purchase enough for both of them to use, even though Sherlock had his own bottle in the shower.  But that shampoo did not smell like John and it was quite agreeable to be able to smell his partner in the air even when John wasn’t actually physically present…

      “Sherlock!”

      “Ah… apologies.  I was… John has indicated that breakfast is ready.”

      “No I haven’t.”

Of course!  Now John makes an appearance when his conversation was at an end.  Sherlock waved John away and put aside a mental note to detail to John just what better use those two fingers could be put to later tonight.

      “Then eat up while it’s hot.  Consider yourself lucky, Sherlock… not everyone has a loved one who is willing to cook for them.”

And he did… Sherlock considered himself very lucky.  And he had knowledge of Lestrade’s cooking skills, having been the recipient of many a pity meal during his darker times, so he could take some joy in the fact that Mycroft would never get to enjoy a taste.

      “I do not disagree.  You will notify me if Arthur has any lingering concerns about Mycroft?”

      “Sure, but I have no doubt he’ll call you anyway in the next day or so and you can give him your own reassurance then.”

True, Arthur was nothing if not diligent in his communications.  And Sherlock would in no way admit to finding himself reciprocating at an alarming rate.

      “As you say.  I must attend to John now.  Return to your job.”

      “And goodbye to you, Sherlock.  And tell John I said hello… I know you’ll tell me I’m crazy, but I envy you, lad.  Never take anything you have for granted… it’s too rare and precious to be overlooked.”

Lestrade ended the call and Sherlock was left staring at his mobile.  He knew he had a something precious and special with John, but… he truly had no idea just _how_ precious and special a thing it was until he learned just how much the love he had was coveted by those who could only stand near and watch it flower.

__________

Anderson was an idiot.  Donovan wasn’t an idiot, but she insisted on behaving as one, so the end result was the same.  Fortunately, the one small case they had been presented today required so little mental energy that even their efforts couldn’t overlook the obvious clues laying about in plain sight and Lestrade actually arrived at his flat and what even a normal person would consider a reasonable hour.  And he had cold pizza waiting along with better than his usual beer, so the night was shaping up well.  Two bare feet up on the couch, dinner and drinks at hand, radio on in the background and muscles sinking into the sofa… heaven.  He was happy to let his mind go blank, paying scant attention to the music or the food or the beer or the still-throbbing pain in his heart.  It was a good night.  Quiet, content, capping a job well done… and his mobile chirping the arrival of Arthur Shappey.

      “GREG!  Oh my heavens!  It was BRILLIANT!  I went snorkeling and paddling in a little boat and I took a hundred pictures with my new camera and Skip learned that some anemones sting and we had fish for dinner, but they promised me it wasn’t any of the fish I met while I was snorkeling and now Skip’s resting since he had to take some pills to take the swelling down and oh… what a wonderful day!”

Now, that was the way to say hello.

      “Arthur, my boy, that all sounds fantastic.  Like a perfect little holiday, except for Martin’s allergic reaction, of course.  Bet you’ll hate getting back here… still cold and rainy and not a fish in sight except for at the market.”

      “Oh, but that’s ok!  If I was here every day, then the fish and trees and people and shorts and flowers wouldn’t be special since I saw them all the time.  One day, we’ll come back and everything will be almost like it’s brand new!  That’s what I love about flying… we go places and just stay a little while so every day is a new adventure.  Oh!  And I found a fish that looked like you!  That makes one I found that looks like Mycroft and one that looks like you.  Yours is a called a barracuda.  It’s brilliant!  It’s silver, like your hair and it’s very fast when it chases after fishes, which is like you when you’re catching a criminal, and it has a lovely smile, just like yours but with more pointy teeth… Oh!  I know!  I’ll start working on costumes now so you and Mycroft can be fish friends for Halloween.  Brilliant!”

It almost made Lestrade want to reconcile with Mycroft if only to see the bastard dressed up like a fish and promenading around in public.

      “That sounds amazing, Arthur, truly amazing.  And my fish is smashing.  Real predator, that one.  Maybe one day I can see it in the flesh.”

      “Oh you will.  I told Mycroft that he had to bring you here because you would have a brilliant time, so I suspect that you’ll find yourself going on a little trip at some point and then we can share pictures.  Oh!  I’ll even let you use my camera.  I have to remember to send it to you.  So how’s Mycroft?  Did you find out why he was so sad?  Did you take him for lunch or send him a happy message or bring him some bubble soap for his bathtub?”

Him and Mycroft on a tropical holiday… Lestrade wouldn’t lie to himself and say that hadn’t been a fantasy he’d visited a few times in the past.  And him and Mycroft in a large bathtub, with or without bubbles…

      “None of that, but he’s doing alright, Arthur.  Just had a bad day yesterday and it was still weighing on him when you called.  Nothing more, so it’s all fine.  Now, about your trip…”

      “But you’re going to make sure he’s ok, right?  Mycroft… he doesn’t always tell the exact truth when he thinks a fib will make someone happier, so you have to pay attention and make sure you always know what’s really going on.”

Oh, Lestrade was very aware that Mycroft was the Prince of Lies… but he did have to agree that he sometimes showed off his skills when the truth was harsh and painful to bear.  How many times had he given Sherlock a pleasant lie while he hid the nasty reality of life behind his back?  And now… the situation with him, at least as it affected Arthur…

      “He’s fine, Arthur.  I promise you he’ll be fine.”

      “Ok, if you say so.  And you’ll see him soon right?  See if he looks alright so you know for sure that he’s not trying to hide something or not telling you the entire truth about he’s feeling?”

Now it was his turn to lie.  And that was a bitter taste that didn’t go well with cold pizza.

      “Of course!  I’m sure we’ll see each other soon.  Busy times, though as I’m sure you understand.  Hard to get a moment together with our schedules.”

      “Well, I do understand that quite well.  Some days, when we have passengers, I barely have a moment to see Skip, especially if we get back to Fitton late and Mum says I can’t stay over at Skip’s flat because she’s worried I’ll get poisoned by mold.  But… oh!  Brilliant!  I have the perfect idea!  And I’ll set it up!  Do you have a day off coming up?”

This didn’t sound good, but Lestrade couldn’t lie… he’d exhausted his supply of lies in regards to Arthur.

      “I have a physical scheduled day after tomorrow and I have the day off for that.”

      “Brilliant!  Then I have a great idea and I just know Mycroft will love it, too.  And everyone can have such a lovely time.  I’ll let you know when I have it all planned.  Now, did you solve a crime today?  I want to know everything…”

Lestrade settled back to tell Arthur the abridged story of their quick and simple robbery-homicide case and take in the rest of the details of Arthur’s day in the tropics.  He would let the worry about what grand scheme Arthur was hatching wait until morning…


	25. A Matter of Choosing the Proper Accomplice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, we all need our own Arthur Shappey...
> 
> ... and wonderful people with wonderful ideas who are willing to share. Many thanks, as always, for each and every bit of feedback...

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and chuckled for a long time after disentangling himself from Arthur’s telephone communication.  The boy sounded so enthusiastic and so confident that his plan would be effective and Mycroft had to admit that as first strikes went, this was a powerful one.  And so elegant in its simplicity… he just had to convince Gregory to agree.  That would not be a simple matter, but Mycroft enjoyed little more than a rewarding challenge.

__________

      “Lestrade.”

      “I would ask that you allow me to fully relay my message before you terminate this conversation, Gregory.  It is something about which we simply must speak.”

Mycroft!  Of all the people Lestrade had no desire to talk to, Mycroft Holmes was at the top of the list.  Actually, he was pretty much the entire list in one man.  He made a silent bet with himself that the next words the man said would be some variation of ‘I need a favor.’

      “Fine.  Talk away.  I’ll listen if it seems relevant, though I can tell you right now that’s not bloody well likely.”

      “Very fair, Gregory, very fair.  I find myself in a position of asking for your assistance in a matter of some importance.”

Lestrade owed himself a fiver.

      “At least you’re consistent. What do you want, Mycroft?  Your lover boy got himself a bit jammed up?”

      “I would never ask that of you, Gregory.  I know I have wronged you in a most unforgiveable fashion, but I would not further your pain through such an act of intentional humiliation. The assistance I seek concerns young Arthur.”

      “Arthur!  Is he ok?  Jesus… I just talked to him and…”

      “He is well, perfectly well.  It seems however that our détente on matters concerning Arthur shall be put to the test sooner than either of us had predicted.  And, to implement the necessary measures to continue his blissful ignorance of our situation, we shall need to, as they say, clear the air a bit, I do believe.”

Wasn’t this conversation just sliding further and further downhill?  Lestrade almost wished Mycroft _had_ called to get his toy boy out trouble so he could have given him a quick ‘get fucked’ and be done with it.  But this was something he had to face up to and… maybe he should look at it as a good thing.  He knew he needed to talk to Mycroft at least one more time and this would be a good excuse.  Get his knocks in behind the cover of whatever it was that needed sorting with Arthur.  And…no matter how much he might want it, Mycroft would always hover at the fringes of his life through their mutual friends and loved ones.  Lestrade had just hoped he’d have a little more time to pull himself together before this ‘clearing of the air’ happened.

      “Alright… you wanna go first or shall I?”

      “Good heavens… such a discourse cannot be achieved through the impersonal medium of a telephone.”

_And you have to talk to him in person.  That’s very important.  As long as you’re on the other end of the phone he can’t see you or smell you or anything and you can’t really, really tell if what you’re saying is having any effect.  But be nice!  Be nice and polite and friendly, and tell him you’re sorry right off.  We’re not having another big stinky mess like that again!_

      “I’m not meeting with you, Mycroft.”

      “We are grown men, Gregory.  Occupying the same table at a café should not be a terribly difficult thing to endure.  I do not bite you know… oh dear.”

Mycroft made a note to allow Arthur to use him as a piñata every time they met for the next decade or two  Only with Gregory did his mind fail him so astoundingly.

      “Yeah… nice job.  Rather not be anywhere near you when you’re putting the boot in, thank you very much.”

      “Gregory, you know I misspoke.  It is a condition that appears only to manifest when my communications are with you and I can offer no other reason than, with you, my words have never purely come from the areas of reason and logic, the only areas in which I am comfortable and practiced.”

Lestrade understood the situation.  He recognized fully that clichés could sometimes hit home too strongly.  But, he also suffered every morning seeing the nearly-faded remnants of their one night together scattered on his body and forcing his fingers not to touch each one to try and recapture the memory.

      “Fine, you’re right.  Little overreaction on my part.  Still doesn’t change the fact that I’m not sitting down for a chat.”

      “Please, Gregory.  I would beg this one favor so that we might more successfully converse with no further misunderstandings.  Telephone conversations are terribly fraught with opportunities where levels of meaning go unremarked because the salient cues are not observed.  I am not unaware of the difficulty of what I am asking, nor, perhaps, of the inequity to you and I would not do so if I did not consider this a matter of great importance to both of us.”

Actually, having many salient cues go unobserved sounded very good in Lestrade’s opinion.  The last thing he needed was for Mycroft to have even more ammunition to use when taking him apart.  But he’d promised himself he’d stop being a child about what amounted to nothing more than a messy breakup, and this would be a way to prove that to himself.  One final face-to-face and then… well, he’d have to talk to the bastard at some points in the future, but there wasn’t much personal business about keeping Sherlock and John out of jail.

      “What were you thinking, then?  Tea?”

      “I think that would be very acceptable.”

      “Let me see… I can probably break away in an hour or so.  That work for you?”

      “That will suit my schedule nicely.  I shall see you then.”

Lestrade took a few deep breaths after the call was over and contemplated texting John for moral support.  Since that would take the legs out of his being-a-full-grown man impersonation, that idea was shelved.  He’d probably more need a friendly ear afterwards than before anyway…  Tea with Mycroft… come full circle and wind up at about at the same point as when they started.  Just with the layer of betrayal and heartbreak, no… not going to use that term since he by no means would ever admit to caring enough about Mycroft Holmes to warrant a broken heart… so, he now had an hour to get his nerves in order, shuffle things around so it looked like he was working and not just fretting and maybe taking another look at the funny cat videos Arthur delighted in sending him…

__________

Mycroft took a few deep breaths after the call was over and contemplated texting Arthur for moral support.  Since that would take the legs out of his cool-and-in-control impersonation, the idea was shelved.  He’d probably more need a friendly ear afterwards than before anyway.  Tea with Gregory… back at the damnable starting line and no one to blame but himself.  But this time, he was not plagued with doubts about what he wanted with his Gregory.  _Everything_.  He wanted the man’s mind, body, heart and soul.  And he wanted to give that of himself, also.  Now, he just had to tailor his wardrobe so he didn’t resemble a mortician.  What possessed him to choose _this_ tie on a day like today?  At least he had the forethought to wear his new tie pin for encouragement…

__________

Mycroft refused to call what he was doing running, because that would be undignified.  It was rushed walking, at best.  Why in the world would he suppose that just because he had a meeting of paramount importance to attend, someone else would not be sufficiently foolish to insist _their_ meeting was ranked higher on the priority scale?  Couldn’t one, just one, pesky coup take place without his intervention?  Did no one have the ability to do anything for themselves anymore?  Such a perfect way to begin the long, hard road towards reclaiming his Gregory… late and disheveled and perspiring and... oh.  Judging by the expression on his dearest’s face, disheveled and perspiring was a look he wore well…

Though Gregory Lestrade did not look at all well.  He, in fact, looked as if he was recovering from a prolonged illness and it tore at Mycroft’s heart to see the physical evidence of the Detective Inspector's suffering.  He had given Lestrade the respect of privacy since the _incident_ , but now wished he had given himself better warning about what to expect, for it was exceedingly difficult preventing himself from simply picking the man up and taking him home for enforced rest.  And, as an additional burden, Lestrade had been forced to sit and wait for a meeting he had not wanted to attend in the first place.  Touching his tie pin to draw strength, Mycroft drew out a chair and took a seat, praying his smile looked as apologetic and hopeful as he needed it to be.

      “My apologies, Gregory.  My deepest and most sincere apologies for my tardiness. An unexpected draw on my time from which I could not turn away.”

And he would in no way let it enter his mind that this was very much the way he explained away missing Gregory’s lovely dinner.

      “And your phone still doesn’t know how to call mine?  You need one of those _smart_ phones all the kids are talking about.”

That his phone had been in use to ensure that Edgar would be enjoying a short holiday with friends in Spain over the next three days would not be mentioned.  One day was necessary for tomorrow’s initiative with Gregory and the other two were simply so Mycroft could catch his breath and have some rest from Edgar’s incessant demands… John might complain that Sherlock could be considered ‘high-maintenance,’ but he truly had no idea the extent to which that concept could be carried.

      “Unfortunately, the moment my meeting ended, I received a call that I had to accept and that lasted until I was within sight of our lovely café.  I would not leave you waiting without word, Gregory.  That is a lesson I have learned and taken to heart.  As… has the lesson of apologies.  I cannot in any meaningful way express to you how sorry I am for what I have done.  It was unconscionable and completely inexcusable.  I shall not try to offer you reasons or explanations beyond my own weakness and lack of personal credibility.  You should not take away any thoughts that you are at all to blame or in any way influenced my behaviors.  I lacked the necessary moral character to behave in a fashion that is appropriate and deserved by someone as worthwhile as you.  I understand that our romantic relationship has broken and I accept that as my due, though I grieve for the pain it has caused you and for what I have forfeited because of my unimaginable stupidity.  That you would even agree to help me save face before young Arthur is a kindness I certainly do not warrant, but will cling to gladly.  You are the most wonderful man in London, Gregory and I abused you horribly; never believe that I saw you any differently, nor that you lacked anything to earn this betrayal.  The fault is completely mine, my dear, and I will carry the weight of my regret for the remainder of my days.”

Mycroft let out the last of his breath in a soft exhale, finding that his small speech had exhausted him.  But it was worth every minute he had spent trying on words to find which best fit his apology, because there was still hope.  Despite Arthur’s assurances, he had known that the reality was that Gregory’s heart could have ossified and he would have no chance to bring it back to life.  However, the slight glistening in his Detective Inspector’s eyes had nothing to do with anger.  There were still living feelings present, bruised and crushed, but if they still remained, no matter how weakly, there was still hope.  And it was now his highest purpose to see that hope realized.

Lestrade wiped what had to be dust out of his eyes and stared at the man sitting across the table.  He would give anything to know if Mycroft was being honest or exceptionally manipulative.  Likely, he would never know, even if he spent the rest of his life trying to find out.  Ultimately, it didn’t matter, since he wasn’t spending his life doing _anything_ with Mycroft Holmes.  It was decent of the man to make the gesture, though.

      “Well, I guess you did learn a thing or two about apologizing.  I’ll say thank you, but the part about offering forgiveness isn’t on the table.”

      “Nor would I expect you to.  I would not even accept it _were_ you to offer.  It is enough that you allowed me to express the sentiment.”

      “Ok then… what’s this about Arthur?  That’s why I’m really here, right?”

      “Ah yes, dear Arthur.  You are aware, I have no doubt, of Arthur’s fondness for communication and his delight in utilizing every possible method to interact with those close to him.  He is seeking to draw us both more actively into his exchanges.”

      “I’m nearly certain I have contact with the lad every day in some way, so I’m not sure where this is going.”

      “The key is _both_ of us, Gregory.  Arthur has asked that we engage in an act of mutual communication and one that is, I believe, familiar to you.  He has, as I understand, shared a viewing experience with you using his mobile as the transport of the conversation.  Is that correct?”

      “Watching a match on the phone?  Sure, that and an episode of _Doctor Who_ that came on while we were having a chat one night.”

      “Ah, the very thing.  So you understand?”

      “Arthur wants to watch something…”

      “A film.”

      “…ok, a film with both of us?  Well… I guess… that’s not a real problem.  I’m sure you can arrange some form of 3-way calling and…”

      “I regret that will not be sufficient.  Arthur has been mournful that I could not fully appreciate our conversations since he often punctuates his dialogue with a variety of visual aids and I have recently installed a video-conferencing system in his bedroom to remedy the situation and brighten his spirits.”

Recently, as in being installed and configured while they currently sipped tea.

      “I’m not following.”

      “Arthur has invited us for a film night that we will all enjoy together through the video feed.”

      “And you’re going to put all that crap in my flat, too?”

      “Not as such.  Arthur would expect us to interact with him in our role as a couple.  You will need to join me physically so that the illusion may be maintained.  He would surely ask uncomfortable questions if we had the time to set aside for a film, but did not spend that time together.”

Even when he was befuddled, Gregory was a joy to behold.

      “You want me to come to your place so we can watch a film with Arthur.”

      “Precisely.”

      “No way.  No fucking way am I going to put on a show for Arthur when your boyfriend’s hovering in the background giving you a quick one every time you excuse yourself to visit the loo.  You can forget about that right now.”

Danmation! He’d not considered that objection, probably because he knew Edgar would be far away from his small piece of contentment, manufactured as it might be.

      “Edgar will not even be in the country, Gregory.”

      “Funny, last time I heard that excuse, it was about _you_ and I think you remember how that turned out.”

With his world crashing down around his feet.

      “I acknowledge your worries and understand the source of your hesitation, but, consider that this is for dear Arthur.  Surely you do not think that I would go to these lengths for his happiness and jeopardize it with the presence of Edgar?  I can assure you, Gregory, Edgar would not for a moment tolerate my time being, as he would see it, wasted in this fashion, when it could be better devoted to him.”

      “Wow, you make him sound like such a catch.”

      “The night of the opera I told you my perceptions of Edgar and none of it was untrue.  It is my own fear that I am a man who is no better.  You have my word, for all the value you might accord it, that the night will be enjoyed by only three and it shall be no more than a convivial evening of cinema and conversation.  Can you do this, Gregory?  Not for me, but for Arthur?  He would be terribly disappointed if I had to send him our regrets.”

It could be termed manipulative to present Gregory with his own version of puppy-dog eyes, but all was fair in love and war.  And Gregory melted so _charmingly_ …

      “For Arthur.  Only for Arthur.  And we need to figure out when we’re going to give him the fabricated story of our breakup.”

      “Without question.  That is certainly a matter that will require our most dedicated attention.  However, I suggest we set aside that thought for the moment and concentrate of making Arthur’s evening a most pleasant one.  Would eight o’clock be acceptable?  I will be happy to provide a meal if you choose an earlier arrival.”

      “Eight will be fine.  I’m just there for the film and Arthur.  Don’t forget that.”

      “I would never dream of thinking otherwise.  Regardless, I am afraid that popcorn has been deemed mandatory, so you will have to consume at least a few morsels to pacify our happily dictatorial host for the evening.”

There it was, Gregory’s lovely laugh.  Connected directly to Mycroft’s spine if the slight jolt than ran upwards through it was any indication.

      “I can do popcorn.  Perish the thought there’s a film night without a big bowl of popcorn.  That would cause an international crisis for sure.”

      “And since I would likely be called away to apply a soothing balm, I shall take no chances and ensure two bowls are prepared.”

There it was, Mycroft’s wonderful sense of humor.  Connected directly to Lestrade’s spine if the slight jolt that ran upwards through it was any indication.  This was the Mycroft Holmes that he had adored, the one he’d honestly fantasized about enjoying a cup of tea with, in their own home, on lazy Sunday mornings…

      “Good to know.  So, anything else?  I’ve still got a mountain of work to plow through and that’s if we don’t get called out later on…”

      “I believe our business is concluded.  And most satisfactorily, I must say.  Thank you, Gregory… Arthur will be ecstatic.  And I also offer you my personal thanks.  You have been more gracious than I had the right to expect.”

      “Yeah, well… I’m trying to move on and I can’t do that if I’m holding onto a barrelful of anger.  Maybe one day I can even agree to sit here without some pretense.  Just not now… I’ll do your evening with Arthur, but don’t look for anything more.”

      “Of course not, my dear.  I look for nothing more than you will ever be able to comfortably give.”

      “Mycroft… don’t call me ‘my dear…’ “

      “I apologize, my sweet.”

      “Bastard.”

      “If you believe Sherlock.”

__________

Could he have been any more spineless?  Oh Mycroft, of course I’ll come to your house.  Pretend to be a couple?  No problem.  And even less of a problem laughing at your jokes.  Of course I won’t give you the lambasting you deserve, but I _will_ have a hard time catching my breath seeing the sweat shining your skin and your hair mussed just the way that makes me want to ravage you immediately and who cares if we have an audience.  Lestrade gave himself one mental kick after another as he returned to his office and knew that if Sherlock had witnessed his pathetic showing, he’d have his skin fileted from the bone.  And he’d deserve it!  Sherlock had been right, he’d seen Mycroft and wound up wrapped around his little finger.  Apparently, he now needed a chaperone every time he was in Mycroft Holmes line of sight.

But tomorrow wasn’t about Mycroft.  It was about a kind and innocent boy who Lestrade could no more distress than take his own head off with the jagged edge of a soup tin lid.  He could do this.  Sit back and just enjoy the evening for what it was and he had no doubt that what it was would be fun, even with the gaping chasm between him and Mycroft.  But if he just accepted that…  They weren’t anything to each other anymore besides… well, not friends, but at least acquaintances.  He’d consume a film and popcorn with one person he’d quickly come to care for and another that he… could come to tolerate.  Yeah, he could do this… and soon the deception wouldn’t be necessary.  They’d let Arthur down gently and that would be that.

Now, he just had to find something to wear…

__________

This was impossible!  How could he continue this pretense when his whole being screamed for him to take Gregory in his arms and demonstrate in every way possible the depths of his regret and sorrow?  His calculation of the impact of seeing his Detective Inspector in the flesh had been pathetically inaccurate.  He wanted to throw himself at the man’s feet and beg to be taken back into his life.  He wanted to strip to his pants, throw his suit into the nearest bin and renounce his life’s work if that would make his man happy and gain his forgiveness.  Wanted, wanted, wanted… but could not have.  Could not _do_.  Such was the life of Mycroft Holmes… but now, a full evening in the comfort and warmth of his home, his lover at his side, spending time with one of their cherished charges.  That was a _life_.  And it was what he had always wanted, though he kept the secret locked away deep inside himself.  He grew up in a cold house and swore that he would either have a loving home of his own or none at all and he’d enjoyed copious amounts of the latter throughout the years.  Now… he knew the person with whom he could make the former a reality and… no, it would not do to get ahead of himself.  There were too many things that could go wrong, too many opportunities for stochastic events to upend his plans.  Tomorrow night would be enjoyable, would gain him time with Gregory and allow Arthur to work his own variety of magic to help close the gap that kept him from the man he needed.  Nothing could truly change until he closed the book on his current initiative and eliminated Edgar from his life, but… he could gain room to breathe…

__________

      “Gregory… it is wonderful to have you again in my home.”

Neither man would spare one tiny though towards the last time Lestrade had visited and how hot their blood had boiled laying in each other’s arms in front of the fire.

      “Thanks… better here than my flat.  Much nicer chairs and I don’t have a bloody theater tucked away.”

      “One must have some indulgences they permit themselves.”

Problem was Mycroft’s indulgences didn’t at all resemble Lestrade’s.  If he indulged himself, it meant tossing a half-decent steak into his basket when he did the shopping… But he did pick up a new shirt the other day and successfully hid his smug smile seeing Mycroft’s subtle appreciation of his choice.  Yeah… this could have been yours if you hadn’t mucked everything up, you stupid sod.

      “True.  Life’s short, so what you waste… you waste.”

And was his aim true?  Oh yes… no question that he’d hit Mycroft straight in his reasoning center.  You heard that loud and clear didn’t you, Mr. Guardian of the Free and Not-So-Free World?  Well, still can’t have a piece of this… and that pretty much dried up Lestrade’s reservoir of aplomb.

      “Very perceptive, Gregory.  Now, shall we prepare for our film adventure?  Arthur should be signing on quite soon and once he does… well, there will be little time for anything else.”

Mycroft motioned Lestrade to take the lead and followed his Detective inspector as he made his second trip to Mycroft’s entertainment enclave.  It was an unseemly flare of pleasure in Mycroft’s core as he enjoyed Lestrade’s fresh awe at his little sanctuary.  He could provide properly for his Gregory.  Protect him and provide for him and that satisfaction was a hot and satisfying hum that had risen and purred in the background of his mind.  Though Gregory would never ask for anything, unlike Edgar who demanded his every desire be placed in his hands.

      “And I believe I recognize those bottles you have sitting all nonchalant among your expensive alcohol.”

      “It would, I am to understand, be a violation of protocol to enjoy our film night without the benefit of a fine bottle of ale.

      “You don’t have to treat me like a real guest, Mycroft.”

      “Oh but I do.  Our dear steward is very observant and would quickly detect any aberrations in my normal behavior as a host with guests in my home.  And I later would be subject to a thorough lecture on the proper methods of ensuring a quality experience for my visitors.  I am far too weak a man, Gregory, to withstand the perturbed fingerwagging of Arthur Shappey, so please take pity on me and just drink the beer.”

      “Well, if you put it that way.”

      “And I did, so… ah!  It looks like our third has arrived.”

Mycroft touched an icon on the tablet sitting next to his seat and Arthur jubilant face popped up on a large monitor sitting on a table next to what would be Lestrade’s chair.

      “Hi Mycroft!  Hi Greg!  THIS IS BRILLIANT!  Oh, and it’s set up just the way I wanted so it’s like we’re all sitting together in my room and watching our film and… hold on.”

There was a bit of an earthquake on the monitor as Arthur lifted what must have been the camera and started carrying it around the room.

      “This is my room!  I forget that you haven’t even seen it, Mycroft!  There’s my books and that’s the computer I used to watch the tapes to find Skip and there are my animals, they’re stuffed so don’t worry they’ll be making a lot of noise during our film , and there’s my video game system and there’s oh!  You’ll like this, it’s my picture wall…”

Lestrade didn’t even think about shoving Mycroft’s hand off of his shoulder since the man obviously needed some form of structural support to stay vertical.  Arthur’s wall was covered completely with printed-out photographs of a thousand different things, but reading-centered was a near poster-sized photograph of Sherlock, for which he had obviously posed to look dramatic.

      “Nice one of your brother.  Need some help there, by the way?”

      “I may be ill…”

      “What’s going on?  Mycroft looks like he needs a pail.”

      “He’s just overcome by the majesty of your photo of Sherlock.  Good job with that, bet you had to work hard to get the shot.”

      “I did!  I took that one while we were looking for Skip and Mr. Sherlock didn’t want to stand still, but I finally agreed that if he let me take my pictures then I’d let him be King of the Radio for the entire rest of the day.  Which meant I didn’t get _any_ radio at all for the rest of the day, but that was ok because I got smashing pictures.  Oh!  And look…”

Arthur set down his video camera and rummaged around on this desk, pulling up a cut-out picture of a deerstalker, which he affixed to the top of Sherlock’s head.

      “See!  I put a little tack right there in Mr. Sherlock’s curls so you can’t see it and cut out a lot of hat pictures so I can dress him up now and then.  My favorites are the jester’s cap with bells and the mouse ears they give you at Disney, but Skip favors the devil horns.”

Lestrade could not even bring himself to shrug off Mycroft’s forehead, which hand landed on his shoulder to hide the laughter that was threatening to burble up and destroy his carefully-groomed composure.  

      “That’s… that’s the most wonderful thing I’ve seen in a very long time, lad.  Right creative of you to think of that.”

Mycroft’s whispered ‘I will see you knighted if you promise to bury me with paper-doll Sherlock’ threated to break _Lestrade’s_ composure, but luckily Arthur was moving on to other things.

      “And here’s one of Doctor Watson, and one of you Mycroft and there’s Greg...Skip won’t let me put up one of him since he says I see him every day, but I rather think it’s just because he’s shy.  That’s ok… I still have his bum photo on my phone.  You remember that one, Mycroft.  I can tell you it hasn’t changed a lot even though Skip’s eating much better now that I’m in charge of plumping him up a bit.”

      “Bum photo?”

      “I am physically incapable of elaborating.”

      “Well then, you just collect yourself and I’ll admire the nice photo gallery Arthur’s got going on… definitely captured John well.  On his arse with a cup of tea, that’s our man.  Oh… and very, um… very nice one of you mate.”

Mycroft peeked up from Lestrade’s shoulder to see himself leaning against the doorframe of his kitchen, face lit with a smile only a handful of people in the world had ever been privileged to see.  His real one.

      “And look at you, my dear.  I believe the appropriate term is dashing.”

Arthur had snapped a profile photo of Lestrade while he working, looking off into the distance, serious and focused… probably about ten minutes before Mycroft’s call that fractured his world.  The first time.  This time he did shrug off the elder Holmes’s contact and Mycroft’s curiosity was short-lived as he quickly put together the pieces, making no comment beyond a brush of his fingers along the side of Lestrade’s hand as he moved away.

      “That’s the perfect word!  Greg is very dashing, which is good since you are too, Mycroft.  That’s part of what makes you a good match.  And there’s a picture of you both in your tuxedos.  Mum even agreed that you both looked especially handsome and Mum has a _very_ difficult time saying nice things about people, so it had to be true.  Well, that’s my room!  And now, I’ve got a new video camera and a very nice screen and I can sit here and talk with people, well… the two of you.  Or anyone else that comes to visit, which would be brilliant if you could get Doctor Watson and Mr. Sherlock over for a nice party and it would almost be like Skip and I were there, too!”

Mycroft opened a bottle of ale and passed it to his Detective Inspector, who took it with a quiet thank you, but also with the ghost of a smile.

      “And what of cousin Martin, Arthur?  Is he not joining us?”

      “Nah, Skip has an early job with his van in the morning and he also needs his rest because we’re going dancing tomorrow night!”

Lestrade’s ghost of a smile solidified as he pictured Arthur Shappey on a dance floor.

      “Oh, I didn’t realize that Fitton was quite large enough to warrant what might be called a ‘club scene.’ “

      “No no no… we’re going to the dance at the agricultural college where Skip’s roommates go.  It’s to raise money for charity and you have to pay to be there, but Skip volunteered his van to move some things and we’re going early to help set up and decorate so we get to dance for free!  Although Skip is being somewhat of a drippy faucet about the dancing part.  I don’t think he realizes that it’s not whether or not you’re good at dancing, it’s whether or not you have fun!  And I’m going to make sure he has the most fun anyone could possibly have.  Do you two go dancing?  I bet you have a brilliant time if you do…”

Lestrade just stared at Mycroft, indicating that this was his mess so he could clean it up, which Mycroft had no qualms about doing, stalking towards the Detective Inspector and swooping him up to waltz a few seconds around the room accompanied by Arthur’s musical laughter.

      “I am afraid we have not had time to attend a formal function that required dancing, my boy, but that does mean we do not dance at all.”

Lestrade’s hissed “you’re pushing it, Mycroft’ was pooh-poohed by Mycroft’s whispered ‘not pushing, my dear, selling…’ and Mycroft just had to end their revelry with a dip.  It did not escape his notice that his Gregory’s body, so wonderful to hold, protested not a whit, implying a good bit of trust that it was safe in Mycroft’s arms.  Yes, there was definitely still hope.  Even with Gregory’s promise to kill him with a cricket bat at his first opportunity.

__________

_Of course you have to have popcorn with a film!  I’m sorry, Mycroft, but that is an absolute requirement.  First off, you have to.  It’s as simple as that.  Second off… no, that doesn’t sound right… oh well, second off it’s the perfect opportunity to have some sneaky touches when you’re not sure if you want the person to really know you want to touch them.  Don’t tell Skip, but that’s one of the reasons I made sure we watched lots of films before we were official boyfriends.  I mean if you both reach for popcorn at the same time, how can you possibly not get a little touching along with your snack?  Now it’s even better because I can even eat popcorn out of his hands and lick the butter off his fingers… which I probably shouldn’t talk about since it’s rather a bit naughty… or it can be… but I’m not talking about it so forget everything I said.  Wait!  No!  Don’t forget everything I said!  Just the part about the butter… oh, now I’ve gone and reminded you again…_

Once again dear Arthur had been perfectly correct.  Such a messy and vacant food product, yet it afforded so many delicious opportunities to catch Gregory’s fingers in his own without it appearing contrived.

      “Greg?  Mycroft?  Have you ever had to fight Nazis?”

      “Christ Arthur!  I’m not that old!”

      “It has been goodly while, but…”

Lestrade and virtual Arthur both stared openmouthed at Mycroft who waved off the rest of his statement with vague utterances about Argentina and war criminals. 

      “Next you’ll tell us you know where they put the Ark of the Covenant.”

      “I apologize, Gregory, but there is a veritable library’s worth of paperwork to establish your clearance to receive that piece of information.”

      “Oh My God!  You do know!”

      “He’s having us on, Arthur.”

      “But Mycroft is in charge of… everything!... so he has to know!”

      “Gregory is right, my boy, I am teasing you just a tad.  Now, if you had asked about the Holy Grail…”

Mycroft was certain there was some prohibitive statute against being assaulted in one’s own home by a handful of flung popcorn.

      “Shut it, you tosser.  If you want to know where stuff is buried, Arthur, ask a copper.  We’re the ones with our ears to the ground and eyes on streets.  Those government types sit too high above the sidewalk to know the real dirt.”

      “That’s… THAT’S BRILLIANT!  Oh, it’s so perfect… Mycroft sees the big things and you see the little things and that way everything gets seen and taken care of.  Really, I completely understand how things work now…  Oh no!  I can’t look… it’s the part with the snakes.  I really think snakes are pretty and I’m sure they are very nice and have lots of friends, but oh… there’s so many of them…”

  With Arthur’s hands over his eyes, Mycroft took the opportunity to catch Lestrade’s eye and share a quiet laugh… So much vitality in one individual.  If it were ever possible in his lifetime, Mycroft wanted Arthur in his home on a Christmas morning, with Gregory and himself looking on as the boy tore into the mountain of wrapped gifts, singing carols and filling every corner of their home with joy.  Such would be a nearly spiritual experience.  Of course, Sherlock would likely also be there hovering like a dark specter of doom, as he was for every Christmas morning of his youth, but Mycroft was confident Arthur’s glee would prevail.  And with John and Martin also in attendance… Mycroft had spent Christmas alone or engaged in work for nearly every year of his adult life and had been content.  Now… he made a mental note to get an accurate measurement of ceiling height in his sitting room in order to pick the proper-sized tree.  Or perhaps two, with one for Arthur and Martin to decorate all on their own.  If that little fantasy could ever be realized, of course.

      “Is it over?”

      “Not a reptile in sight, dear boy.  Shall we pause a moment for you to restore your nerves?  Perhaps a cool cloth to temper your anxiety?”

      “That does sound nice, but I’m much better now.  I could; however, use a quick trip to the loo.  I think I have, perhaps, had too much juice.  Although it was very good juice.  But now I’m slightly quivery and I don’t think it’s going to go away.”

      “What an excellent idea.  I have paused our entertainment so you may take as long as you wish.  I find myself predicting that you will also require additional time to procure more of the juice that has prompted this intermission.”

      “Well, yeah… it _is_ very good juice.  I’ll be right back.”

Arthur leapt out of sight and a war cry erupted that faded as he scurried off to tend to every aspect of his business.

      “And you, Gregory?  Are you also in need of reducing the level of your quiver?”

      “I’m fine, actually.  To be honest, I’m too comfortable to get out of this chair.”

      “I do own a very ornate antique chamberpot that would make an excellent compromise.”

      “Nah, do it the old fashioned way.  Got the bottle I need right here.”

      “Ah… the means change but the method stays the same.”

      “Pretty much.”

      “I shall not find you instructing young Arthur in that particular method of reducing his discomfort, shall I?”

      “I make no promises.  Lad accompanies _me_ on a case, he might wind up sitting in a car for hours on end.  Man’s got to do what he has to when the urge strikes.”

      “How utterly masculine of you.  Arthur will benefit greatly from your tutelage.”

      “Always happy to pass on my years of experience.”

How was it that Mycroft could talk to Lestrade about _anything_ and enjoy it immensely?

      “I’m back!  Did I miss anything?”

      “We were simply discussing bottles.”

      “Bottles are… brilliant!  There’s so many shapes and sizes and colors and I sometimes find old ones that are especially nice and Mum lets me clean them up and they’re very useful for holding flowers or buttons or feathers or…”

      “Splendid, simply splendid.  Are you ready to restart our film?  Why don’t you do the honors?”

      “I’d love to.  Will you remind me before we get to the part where the faces melt off?”

      “You freely may place your faith in us.  Now, shall we begin?”

__________

No matter how much Arthur begged, Lestrade could not be persuaded to stay for another film, citing his need to actually get up for work in the morning.

      “But we’ll do this again, right?  And not just once again, but many again’s?  Please, Greg… please please please please please… This was so much fun and it’s not like you didn’t have a smashing time, too, because you did.  You were smiling all the time and if we do this again and again, you’ll get to smile all those times, too and could anything be better than that?  No… no, I don’t think anything could.  So… next week is fine, right?  I’ll let Mycroft figure out which day and then we can do this again?  You can’t say no, Greg, because you don’t want to and you don’t strike me as the kind of chap who does things he doesn’t want to do.  So that’s a yes, right?”

      “Ummm…”

      “Of course it’s a yes, Arthur.  Gregory would be delighted to revisit our experience.  I shall coordinate with you as to an appropriate date and time.  Now, if you will excuse me while I escort Gregory to the car?”

      “Sure and thanks Mycroft!  And Greg!  I’ll call you very soon and we can talk.  We can pick the film then, too.  Have fun at work… make lots of arrests.  Wait, no… that means lots of people have done bad things.  Have fun at work… don’t make lots of arrests.  There, that’s much better.”

      “Goodnight, Arthur.  I’ll try not arrest at all tomorrow, I promise.  Mycroft, shall we?”

Not that Mycroft had any choice as his arm was taken in an iron grip and he was marched out of the entertainment room.

      “What in the hell was that?”

      “I am at a loss for your point of reference.”

      “You know exactly what I mean, promising Arthur I’d do this again.  We’re supposed to be gentling the news of our ex-relationship, not setting up additional dates to keep the illusion going forever!”

      “Calm yourself, Gregory.  Arthur was very excited with his new experience and I cannot imagine that you would gladly take away his fresh source of happiness so quickly?  Was it truly a hardship for you?  I did try to maintain a respectful distance and cause you no further distress…”

And another exceptionally well-timed implementation of overly-innocent eyes and a shy and hopeful smile.  Without question, an inexcusably deplorable use of his well-honed skills, but… love and war…

      “No… it wasn’t really a hardship.  It was actually a lot of fun.  But don’t expect this to be a regular thing.  Maybe once more, then you and Arthur can enjoy your film nights without me.  Or maybe… once Arthur knows the story, we could do this, perhaps with Sherlock and John too, but without all the fakery.”

      “Of course, very well thought out.  I shall provide you with a variety of scheduling options as soon as I confer with Arthur and we may set firm our next meeting.  Thank you, Gregory.  For Arthur and for myself.  It was good-hearted of you to attend tonight and it meant a great deal to both of us.”

Mycroft walked Lestrade to the waiting car and there was a moment of awkward silence as each man stood looking at the other, very unsure of how to formally call the night to a close.  Mycroft knew perfectly what he wanted, but that option was not viable, at least for now.  Lestrade also knew what he wanted and that he was the worst kind of fool for still feeling a pull towards the great bastard Mycroft Holmes.  His only consolation was that all things faded with time and that was something of which he had an abundant supply.

      “Goodnight Mycroft.  Thanks, I guess, for the film.”

      “And goodnight to you, Gregory.  I shall see you again soon.”

Which was exactly what Lestrade was worried about.

__________

      “Well?  Did you kiss him?”

      “Heavens no, Arthur.  Do not lose sight of what is the actual situation between Gregory and I.”

      “I’m not, it’s just… it’s like when you say ‘it’s going to be a good day’ and then you believe it and you have a good day even if things are actually a little murky and dismal.  I was thinking that if I think positively and say positive things and ask positive questions that it will be just like that!  It might be murky and dismal now, but it’ll still end up being a good day!”

      “The power of positive thinking has demonstrated some effectiveness for promoting successful outcomes, at least for those who thoroughly embrace the philosophy.”

      “Should I say hurrah?”

      “I see no reason to object.”

      “Hurrah!  And he’s coming back, right?”

      “That has been agreed.  I cannot calculate the frequency with any accuracy, but Gregory will visit with us again.”

      “Perfect!  He had so much fun tonight and he’ll have even _more_ fun next time.  Don’t worry about that being my only idea, either, because I’ve got lots more ideas to get you back to being boyfriends.  Not that you really can until _that person_ isn’t around anymore, but we can at least keep Greg nearby so you can snatch him back up once _that person_ is gone.”

How dearly Mycroft loved hearing the scorn in Arthur’s voice when speaking of Edgar.  It was like hearing an angel speaking about a serial killer.

      “I am endeavoring to remove Edgar’s presence from my existence and will alert you the moment I have accomplished the task.  But remember Arthur… this will take time.”

      “I know.  It makes me very sad to think about, but I know.  That doesn’t mean forever, though, and you and Greg can still have fun in the meantime, even if he doesn’t realize exactly why he’s having fun.  You know, I probably should feel somewhat sticky, since I’m fooling Greg and that’s not a particularly polite thing to do, but I don’t.  It was really obvious that Greg still has feelings for you and, even though he thinks you’re not the nicest person right now, he’ll forgive me fooling him since it helped make you a couple again.  If not… you’ll tell him I was just trying to help right?  I really don’t want Greg to be mad at me.”

      “I promise that Gregory could never be angry with you, Arthur.  And I will further give you my word that I will rectify any issues that may arise out of our bit of theatrics.  Now, you were desiring a second film?  Choose at will, my boy.”

      “Really!  Thanks, Mycroft.  Even when you and Gregory are boyfriends again, we’ll still be able to do this right?  It’s not just a for-now thing, is it?”

Not even if Mycroft had to personally dedicate a satellite to keeping his communication line with Arthur open and available.

      “We will always be able to spend time together, Arthur.  Do not worry that I would ever want that to change.”

      “Brilliant!  That’s how I feel, too.  Oh look!  _The Incredibles_!  I love that film… can we watch that one?”

      “I would welcome it, Arthur.  Let us commence…”


	26. The Mice Will Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all who have left encouragement and kind words - my sincere gratitude...

It had been three days and Mycroft’s life was back in hell.  Edgar had returned from his trip to Spain more burdensome than ever and he had not had _any_ contact with Lestrade during that time.  It was to be expected, of course, but it rankled nonetheless.  How bizarre that he had known Gregory for so long, and contacted him so infrequently for most of that time, but now it was souring his mood that he had not received even one of the man’s ridiculous, yet highly-amusing, texts.  Mycroft considered himself the epitome of unflappable, yet he was beginning to flap like a flag in the wind, troubling him greatly yet also providing the most intense feeling of liberation and contentment. If this small and insignificant period of separation was flummoxing him to such a degree, it was simply more evidence that his choice of partner was correct.  Now… he needed an excuse to hear his Gregory’s voice before he sent another assistant running from his office in tears.

Ah… he had just the thing.  The one person he had nearly continuous contact with was young Arthur and the portfolio of thoughts, plans and ideas concerning his personal covert mission sat in a folder in Mycroft’s remote storage that required a password using a character not available to any other computer in existence on the planet except the ones Mycroft personally owned.  One item had looked quite intriguing…

__________

      “Lestrade.”

      “Good morning, Detective Inspector.  I trust I find you well.”

Well?  Let’s see, he’d had not one, but two cases of dead spouses to handle in the past thirty hours; thirty hours where he’d not seen a wink of sleep.  And now Mycroft Holmes was on the phone to add more tar to his lungs.  Lestrade wasn’t sure Mycroft would even _know_ the word he’d use to describe how he was feeling.

      “You’ve put your trust in the wrong man, Mr. Holmes.  Now, what favor can I do for you today?  One of your fleet got a parking violation?”

      “Gregory… must I have a wish to be fulfilled before I may initiate a phone conversation?”

      “Yeah… actually, you do.  Unless you’re checking up on the princeling. There’s not much other reason for you to call, is there?”

Fatigue… terrible fatigue and frustration were heavy in his Gregory’s voice and Mycroft cursed himself for keeping to his resolve to not follow the man’s every move as would a deranged stalker.  Mycroft Holmes might be many things, but he could certainly not be termed _deranged_.

      “Is that a hint of cynicism permeating your normally jovial tone, Gregory?”

      “Nope.  A boot-load of it.  What do you want, Mycroft?”

Cautious steps were needed.

      “I was hoping to persuade you to accompany me on a few small excursions during your next free day.”

Lestrade shook his phone a few times to make sure there were actually no loose parts floating around to produce the obviously compromised signal.

      “Either I didn’t hear you right or you’ve gone senile.  I am not going anywhere with you, Mycroft.  If you don’t remember why, let me remind you.  We are not on good terms, we do not socialize and we especially do not go off on little ‘excursions.’  You are persona non fucking grata and that’s the end of the story.  Now that we’ve cleared that up, I’ll get back to my…”

      “Gregory Lestrade… you do not think me so addled as to believe you would be my escort if the purpose was my own enjoyment?  Arthur has been appreciably concerned that he lacks sufficient photographs of the two of us doing as he has expressed it, ‘fun stuff.’  Apparently, both John and Sherlock have been diligent in providing him with many images to document their work and leisure activities and we have been negligent in that area.  When I have been outdone on a social obligation by my brother, the situation is certainly most dire.”

Lestrade lay his head on his desk and wondered if he imagined it hard enough he could conjure an executioner to lay an axe through his neck and end his misery.

      “You could have just sent me a text saying ‘send Arthur more pictures” and been done with it.  Are you deliberately trying to torture me?”

      “The furthest thing from my mind, my dear.  But, again, you have missed the primary point.  Arthur lacks photographs of the _both_ of us, engaging in pleasurable activities.  Surely you have noticed how neatly he organizes the photographs that he sends.  One folder for himself, one for Martin and another for the both of them combined.  He is being quite specific in his polite and unrelenting manner.  His combined folder for _our_ photographs is sadly thin.”

Even a dull axe would do.  Crushing his neckbones would kill him as dead as having his head fall off.

      “So, you’re saying you want me to go out… gallivanting with you doing things and taking pictures like a couple of Uni brats so we can send them to Arthur and keep him happy?”

      “Both succinct and accurate.”

      “So’s this – No.”

      “Gregory, you must reconsider.”

      “No, no I mustn’t.  I will happily take snaps all day of my own lack of a life, but I will not weave an ever-grander fantasy of our storybook romance so that Arthur crashes even harder when he finds out.  Not to mention, our breakup story is we don’t have enough time for each other.  Doesn’t a computer full of pictures sort of shoot a hole in that story?”

Hell take Gregory Lestrade for using logic against him!  Must think, must think…

      “You are perfectly correct that the documentation of days of frolic would raise suspicions, however, a single day of leisure?  One day that highlighted to us exactly what we were missing owing to our lack of ability to pursue such days with more frequency?  And think about our boy for a moment, Gregory.  Should he not have some photographs to look upon and remember this time fondly?  Pictures of gaiety and levity to add to his gallery?  And we shall not present as foes in the aftermath, so there will be little tarnish on those images to dull their luster.  You cannot deny him this, Gregory… you are not so hard-hearted a man as that.”

Maybe the executioner could just sit on his head and smother him to death.  Lestrade wondered why he ever thought he could listen to Mycroft for more than four seconds and not be swayed into doing what the man wanted.  It was a damned good thing they self-destructed so quickly or else his life would have been nothing but getting twisted up by Mycroft’s way with words.  What kind of relationship could they have had when he didn’t stand a single chance of fighting back?

      “Fine.  Whatever.  We’ll give Arthur some pictures for his wall.  But don’t expect it to be right away because I am backlogged up to my nose and I’m not sure I’ll even see my flat for a week.”

Not acceptable!  That was not, in any competent opinion, a healthy situation and there was nothing so important as Gregory’s health and well-being.  Perhaps a budget increase towards law enforcement was prudent.  With a greater number of individuals to keep the peace, there would be less for each to do.  Though, he had to admit, there were none so competent and compassionate as his Gregory.

      “Surely a portion of your burden can be passed to another, my dear.  It would not do for you to overwork yourself.”

      “Do not tell me how to do my job.  This is the way it goes, Mycroft and you of all people know that’s the case.”

That he did, but he had not reflected on the situation more closely until he ruminated on the ramifications to his prospective mate.  It mattered not if his own schedule was far more torturous, Gregory was too special a person to have to suffer such long hours without an acceptable amount of rest and care.

      “I do know; I know far too well, actually.  However, I also know that you gladly accept more than your fair share of it spares another or if you believe you would be a better choice for the investigation.  It is acceptable to be a tad selfish for some matters, Gregory, if it prolongs your ability to do the work you enjoy.  Your usefulness will be greatly diminished, even curtailed, if you neglect yourself.”

Lestrade knew that.  He knew all of that.  He’d made the same speech a hundred times to others who were working themselves to an early grave.  But it was more than a little annoying hearing it delivered to himself.  By Mycroft I-care-so-much-about-you-I-got-myself-another-man Holmes.

      “If I promise that I’ll try and get home for a shower and a nap today, will you just go away and let me work?”

      “If I believed your promise, perhaps, but that is not something to which I find myself inclined.”

      “Well, it doesn’t really matter if you’re inclined or flat, because ultimately you don’t have a say in the matter and I was just being polite… more than I should be able to be tired and hungry as I am.  I’ll try, ok… look, I’ll let you know when my schedule eases up and we can see about getting Arthur his pictures.  But this is it, understand?”

      “In addition to our next evening with Arthur.  You did promise him that you would attend another cinematic presentation.”

      “Christ… how is it I’m seeing more of you now that I did when we were…  Yeah, ok… one last film night, too.  But on my grandfather’s grave, it ends there.  I need… I have to move away from all of this Mycroft.  You’ve got your new boy to play with but what do I have?  Nothing, and that’s the way it will stay until I get clear of all this crap.  Don’t worry, you’ll still have your little pet on your leash.  I’m not so angry that I’d leave the boys without what little help I can give them, but I need something of my _own_ and that’s not happening as long as I’ve still got you… as long as you’re still hovering about.”

Pet?  Was that how Gregory thought he was perceived?  Mycroft hoped the sharp ache his gut was a simple bleeding ulcer.  That was much easier to cure than guilt.  Than _more_ guilt, that is.

      “Gregory, I do not and have never viewed you as a… servant of some form.”

      “You don’t have to pretend anymore, Mycroft.  I need a favor, Detective Inspector.  You won’t mind traipsing out to see that my brother doesn’t get in too much trouble breaking into government facilities and racing about chasing demon hounds, will you Detective Inspector? Keep my cousin out of jail, if you’d be so kind.  Keep my brother out of jail yet one more time, if you please...  You call me when you need something and I see now it was my own stupidity to think maybe that had changed.  Caught you at a stressful time, didn’t I and… ah, I should have known better.  But, that’s ok.  Over and done with, but I need this all behind me, completely behind me so I can move on.  Look, I’m being rude and… I’m sorry for that.  I know you didn’t call to get a face full of crap, so just forget about it.  I’ll let you know when I get some time and we can get a few photos together for Arthur.  That won’t be a problem.”

And Mycroft was left listening to a closed line.  No, he hadn’t called to get a face full of anything, but he was, well not happy he did, but glad for the information.  With his mind turned in this new direction he analyzed every encounter with his Gregory and found himself, once again, holding his head in his hands wondering how he could ever have been so… arrogant.  Entitled, even.  He had asked much of the Detective Inspector and what had he given back?  What token of thanks or bit of aid rendered?  He had used him as a servant, knowing his requests would be acted upon.  Perhaps not quite in the way he had imagined, but the situation would be handled appropriately.  And did his Gregory benefit from his service?  Did he even gain a word of thanks beyond the perfunctory ‘thank you’ to end the conversation?  Even though they had no relationship at that time, it was inexcusable that he had used the man in that fashion.  His Gregory had been a stalwart ally in his battle to combat Sherlock’s self-destructive tendencies, his _only_ ally for a very long time, and he _had_ treated the man as a pet.  No, that was ridiculous.  Pets were treated far better…

Mycroft had never enjoyed so-called learning experiences, but valued them greatly, nonetheless.  The harm he needed to remedy was deeper than the damage of recent events.  He had to repair that injury and dissipate the older hurts.  Show his Detective Inspector that he was far more than a beck-and-call servant.  That Mycroft relied on him because he trusted him, something that was so rarely bestowed it should to be an occasion of celebration.  Arthur was apparently quite correct… he had no skill for appropriately wooing and maintaining a quality significant other.  And, as apparently, this was due to his complete inability to properly predict the outcome of his behaviors and correctly analyze a personal situation to affect the most suitable behaviors in the first place.  But, now he was aware.  He had amended his criteria list when interacting with his dearest Gregory and that should serve to diminish the further harm he would cause.  At least for this particular crime.  But how many others would manifest as time passed?

It did not matter.  I did not matter in the least if a thousand other problems arose for he would meet each one in turn and take every step to find a solution.  He would take the necessary actions and accept the necessary punishments because his Gregory was more than worth his pitiful efforts.  And he could start now…

__________

Mycroft Holmes was going to have intimate encounter with Lestrade’s fist.  Well, after he finished eating.  Not forty-five minutes after he hung up on that pompous tit a small army of delivery persons descended on him bearing enough food to feed the entire floor and leave enough leftovers for supper.  And it was the right food, too.  Carton after carton of solid, familiar Chinese that was perfect for filling hungry bellies even if you were still chained to your desk.  Of course, all the delivery chaps would say was that a ‘concerned citizen’ donated the food but Lestrade wasn’t a fool.

_On behalf of the lads, thanks for the meal – GL_

_My pleasure, Gregory.  A small acknowledgement of your efforts to ensure the security of our citizens – MH_

_Small?  I pity the poor bloke looking a quick bit of take away right now – the city’s empty! – GL_

_Nonsense.  I left the less reputable establishments off of my procurement list – MH_

_Well done you.  Can’t protect the citizens when you’ve got food poisoning – GL_

_But be honest.  Did you do something with the fortune cookies? – GL_

_Of course not.  Why do you ask? – MH_

_He_ had done nothing to the fortune cookies.  If others took action based on his broadly-worded suggestion, it could not be directly attributed to his influence.

_No reason.  Just a little curiosity.  Thanks again and I’ll let you know when I’m free – GL_

_Your welcome, my dear.  Enjoy your day – MH_

My dear… he was going to punch Mycroft in the bollocks if he called him that again.  That made two punches he owed the man just from today.  Looks like he needed to get back to the weights again and get his arms built up so he could make those punches count.  And he’d add another for the damn fortune laying on his desk, whether Mycroft had arranged it or not.

_The road to true love is often difficult, but it still brings you home._

__________

It was perhaps a bit obsessive, but Mycroft assigned a surveillance team to keep an eye on his Detective Inspector, if only to take the weight of concern off of his mind.  Not that the reports were not their own cause for concern.  Gregory worked far too hard, ate far too poorly, slept far too little and attracted far too much attention from persons who had no business paying attention to his Detective Inspector.  There was the much-too-jubilant young woman who worked at the shabby little shop near Gregory’s flat that he visited for tea.  And the less said about the proprietor of the second-hand book establishment and his ‘special treatment for special customers’ the better.  The most troubling was the neighbor who lived several houses down.  He seemed to delight in finding some excuse to stop and speak with Gregory on the sidewalk or even, without the slightest hint of propriety, pay a visit to Gregory’s flat to borrow a tool.  He would have to be watched.

It was a full week before Mycroft received the text for which he had been waiting and he could say, without risk of overstatement, that it was the most upsetting week of his life.  The literally tortuous kidnapping he’d been subjected to a decade before included.

_I can probably get away for a day this coming week.  Let me know what works for you – GL_

Hmmm… his own week was exceptionally busy, but he could shuffle things around a little.  The PM would forgive being rescheduled; he was always prodding Mycroft to take time to relax as it was.  That would leave Wednesday free and as it looked, there could actually be some sunshine…

_Would Wednesday be acceptable? – MH_

_Yeah, that will work.  Want me to meet you somewhere? – GL_

_I shall call for you instead.  May we say 10:00 am? – MH_

_I guess that will work.  See you then – GL_

_Excellent.  Until then, my dear – MH_

Now, all Mycroft had to do was create a list of acceptable activities that would please his Detective Inspector, yet not seem too fabricated.  Fortunately, Arthur had provided a list of possibilities to choose from.  So… which of Arthur’s 238 FUN THINGS TO DO! list would he choose…

__________

He probably shouldn’t have drunk that last cup of coffee.  He was going to have to stop ten times for a piss break at this rate.  And he really didn’t need the caffeine on top of the case of nerves he was fighting.  One more time he had to associate with Mycroft, when he should never be within earshot of the man.  The only further communication he’d gotten after establishing the date of this nonsense was a quick text to say to dress casual, which was a laugh riot since casual was the only thing owned.  Well, casual and rubbish…

      “Gregory?  Is it your plan to stand there all day emulating one of those rather distressing ‘human statue’ street performers?”

Lestrade snapped out of his reverie and realized why Mycroft had slipped his notice.  He’d been on alert for the usual large, dark sedan, not the red BMW idling at the curb.  Old one, from the 70’s… 320i if he remembered right.  Already Mycroft was manipulating him masterfully… he loved older cars…

      “Nice car, Mycroft.  Yours?  Didn’t notice any government markings.”

And he loved a casually-dressed Mycroft behind the wheel of an older car.  Why in the hell did the man have to look this good?  Dark slacks and what had to be a cashmere jumper in nearly the same shade of grey as the tie he wore the night they… this was just not fair!  The man looked like sex on a lolly stick, grinning at him as if he was daring Lestrade to take a lick.

      “It is, actually.  I have had it for a very long time and do enjoy taking her out now and again, usually into the countryside, but she is also a valiant steed for city travel.”

      “I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sure you even knew how to drive.”

      “Pshaw, my dear.  I was a youth at one point and, though I avoided most of the traditional adolescent rituals, I did present myself at the first possible opportunity to obtain my driving license.”

      “And drove home in Dad’s Jag, probably.”

      “And drove home in the gardener’s aged Fiat.   That was also the vehicle in which I learned to drive.  Though the family was agreeable to the honing of my driving skills, their timetable for my achieving independent mobility was not quite as abbreviated as was mine.”

A teenaged Mycroft Holmes tearing around in secret in an old Fiat was the most mind-boggling and fantastic image Lestrade’s brain was capable of forming.

      “Hah!  You rebel… I always knew you had it in you.  And this old girl, she sticks a little in second, doesn’t she?”

      “Oh very good… it has been a persistent, though minor problem.”

      “I’ll take a look at it later.”

WHAT!  Oh this was rich, now he was even sabotaging himself!  Damn Mycroft Holmes and his ability to make him feel comfortable and relaxed even when they were mortal enemies.

      “Why Gregory… I am both intrigued and delighted by the offer.  I did not know you had a facility with mechanical issues.”

      “I had an off-and-on part-time job at the local mechanic’s shop when I was a kid.  Came in handy when I got my first car.  It was a mess, but I couldn’t complain since I got it for a few cases of crap lager and a hefty bag of… well, that’s best not spoken of, but I spent almost every afternoon fixing something on the old thing.  Actually got her into good enough shape that I sold it for a profit when I decided that a car in London wasn’t quite the great thing I thought it was.”

      “Well, I shall gladly accept your help, my dear, and am very impressed by your skill set.  It seems that I learn something new and remarkable about you at each of our meetings.”

      “Not so impressive.  Us rough boys learn to make do early on.  I can also sew a bit and do a fair amount of home repair, even the electrical.”

      “How versatile of you.  Truly, you shame me.  For my part, I have little to offer in those venues, though I am quite facile with technology, including the less reputable aspects of its application, though I am not called to utilize those skills any longer.  There are far younger and far more dedicated individuals willing to take the reins on that front.”

      “You were a hacker weren’t you?  When you were a lad.  Why am I completely not surprised?  Black, white or grey hat?”

      “Oh very good… I would have to confess to wearing grey, though my dips into the black paths mostly involved family matters, including many initiatives to assist Sherlock.  I trust my wrists are not soon to be cuffed by a diligent officer of the law.”

      “After I told you I traded weed for a car?  Not bloody likely.”

      “Shared secrets do create the tightest bonds.  And look, we have arrived at our first destination.  Now, are you prepared to be photographed ad nauseum?”

      “Can I admit that of all the horrors in the world, getting my picture taken is the worst?”

      “Of course you can, my dear, and I am in full agreement.  However, this is for Arthur, so we must be strong.”

It was only because Mycroft had good taste in cars that he didn’t receive the nasty punch Lestrade owed him for using the now-familiar affectionate term…  And Lestrade made sure to smile brightly as he posed against Mycroft’s tasteful car.

      “Oh, how handsome you look.  Arthur will be quite happy with that particular picture.  Shall we take one together?”

Mycroft stopped a passing couple who were, unfortunately, more than happy to take a picture of the two of them.  And, needless to say, Mycroft just had to wrap his arm around Lestrade’s waist for the shot.

      “Simply striking.  We do make a lovely couple, don’t we?”

Mycroft just never knew when to keep his fucking mouth shut, did he?

      “No.  No we don’t, because we are _not_ a couple.  We could have been, but I believe some stupid wanker decided that he had a better option and took a long piss on whatever _we_ might have had.  You might have met him.  He has a nice car.”

Lestrade stalked away and Mycroft wished he could simply sew his mouth shut like a horrid little shrunken head.  Must remember that Gregory was not in the frame of mind that _he_ currently occupied… Mycroft chased after his prospective partner and caught up with him at the entry doors.

      “Apologies, Gregory.  Truly, I did not mean any offense.  It was simply a statement of fact that, taken as a pair, we present a handsome picture.”

      “Not as handsome as you and Edgar… what’s he got on me?  10 years?  And the hair to go with it.  Let’s get this over with.”

Mycroft had established a mental tally sheet for the wrongs he visited upon his Gregory and was committed to adding each insult and injury to it so he could make appropriate repayment.  He would make sure to reassure Gregory every day of their lives that his age was not something unattractive, but rather, gave him an air of mastery and strength of maturity that was extremely appealing.  As soon as he rid himself of the child that was currently clinging to his trouser leg.  While pickpocketing his wallet.

      “Of course… On a cheerier topic, I thought you would appreciate a stimulating day and I predicted the Natural History Museum would be a good start.  It is a favorite of Arthur’s as well, so it will greatly assist our cause.”

Lestrade drew a deep breath and fought down the conflicting emotions.  Being with Mycroft was like being the ball in a tennis match, getting hit over and over, this way and that… but he could do this.  He could enjoy a day of fun on Mycroft’s tab and make Arthur happy at the same time.  Whether that beautiful grey-clad ponce had any fun or not wasn’t his concern.

      “Not a bad pick.  It should be entertaining, I actually haven’t been here before.”

      “Then I am honored to be your escort.  Shall we, my dear?”

      “What have I said about calling me, my dear?”

      “I have forgotten.  Do remind me at some point.”

__________

Lestrade absolutely did not want to admit that he had a fantastic time at the museum and the time was made far more enjoyable by the presence of Mycroft Holmes, who easily provided competent and vibrant narration for each of the exhibits as if he was the curator of the whole damned thing.  Even the seemingly thousands of pictures they took wasn’t as bothersome as he might have thought.

      “Are you sure, Gregory?  I think you would cut a striking figure in a dinosaur shirt.”

      “I’m not here for souvenirs, Mycroft.  Shove off.”

      “Pity, That particular one would enhance so delicately the hue of your eyes.”

      “Oh, shove off twice for that crap.  Are we done?  Can I go home now?”

      “Under no circumstance!  Our day has only begun.  Our next destination awaits.”

      “Oh joy…”

__________

      “And what are we shopping for?”

      “The nature of the item is irrelevant, Gregory, it is the experience.  Viewing the numerous objects offered for sale, debating their worth, discussing the other persons engaged in similar pursuits…  Were the day correct, I would gladly take you to look for antiques, but that shall have to wait for another time.  For now, we shall stroll amongst the masses and take in the eclectic mix of good being proffered.  I already see a gift that I would gladly bestow unto you, dear Gregory.”

Mycroft strolled over to a shop window and pointed a radio-controlled Formula 1 racecar in a daring yellow and well-provided with appropriate sponsor decals.

      “You don’t offer a man a racer unless you actually plan on racing, Mycroft.  Sure you want to do that?”

How enticing was Gregory Lestrade’s teasing smile…

      “I would gladly go, as they say, head-to-head, against you, my dear.  And defeat you handily.”

      “Cocky… but it won’t win the day.  Care to know how many hours of driving courses I’ve had to suffer through for this job?  Let me enlighten you – lots.  You have no prayer of beating me.”

      “Cocky… but it is without foundation.  Would you care to know how many hours I have spent actively using my vehicle to keep myself and others alive when the situation has deteriorated to the unfortunate use of guns and other projectile weapons?”

      “I refuse to concede defeat.  This shall have to be settled on the field of honor.”

      “I have no objection.  I shall have an appropriate course created and you may demonstrate your paltry ability to navigate a path of notable complexity.”

      “And you’ll get an RC helicopter and drop little bombs on me, won’t you?”

      “I had not thought of it before, but I am considering it seriously as of now.  What a marvelous idea!  You are a man of admirable creativity, my dear.”

No… no no no no… he was not going to fall for Mycroft’s playful side yet again.  Why was it that one man could rule the fucking free world, yet be so funny and _fun_ at the same time?  It was one hundred percent not fair…

      “Yeah… well, maybe you can set all of that up and put the challenge to Arthur.  He’d love to play with you… here, get a picture of me in front of the car to remind you in case you forget.

There was no universe in which Mycroft would forget his dear Gregory’s face bright with enthusiasm at the thought of engaging in an exciting day of play.  One in which Mycroft would be just as enthused to be a participant.  Only with Gregory could he relax his guard sufficiently to be mischievous and even silly… how glorious it would be to explore that side of himself with his dearest at his side.  As soon as his dearest _agreed_ to be at his side… 

__________

Lestrade wondered how he could be completely happy and completely irritated at the same time.  He normally hated shopping, but he was having a marvelous time.  They walked the streets, wandering through various shops enjoying the time, without buying a single thing.  And how many pictures did they take, often begging favors of strangers to capture them together to satisfy Arthur’s demands?  It wasn’t right… it wasn’t right that he should be having such a good time when he was with the person who had lied to him, humiliated him and blasted a lorry-sized hole through his heart that still bled and ached miserably every time he had a quiet moment or when he turned out the lights for the night.

      “You’ve been quiet, Gregory.  I do believe you require some nourishment.  I have plans for a meal later, but a small respite seems to be in order.  And I see the very thing that will do.  Come along, my dear.”

Lestrade found his arm linked with Mycroft’s and before he could pull away, he was drawn down the street a few doors and into a shop that offered a wondrous array of ice cream tubs, beckoning loudly to hungry shoppers.  He was so mesmerized that he didn’t slap away Mycroft’s cheating face as he leaned in to whisper in his ear.

      “Today was at my request, Gregory, so your indulgence is my treat.  Please do not deny yourself for any reason.”

Bastard.  Bastard with… oh!  they had pistachio… a drizzle of hot fudge on top.

      “I have no problem accepting your ice-cream money, Mycroft.  And I also have no problem going big for this one.”

      “I expect nothing less.  Shall we?”

__________

Lestrade hoped that Mycroft didn’t notice that ice cream made him giddy as a kid.  He’d gotten little of it as an actual kid and now it was a valued treat he still sampled rarely.

      “Heavens, Gregory… the noises you are making are practically sinful.”

And, of course, he noticed.

      “What can I say, I enjoy sinful things.”

      “Pistachios are sinful?”

      “I’m sure some religion would agree.”

      “I admit that I have no basis for conclusion, having never sampled that particularly green variety of dessert.”

      “Wait a minute… wait just one minute… you’ve never had pistachio ice cream?”

Mycroft took a long lick of his own chocolate fudge and cocked an eyebrow towards his partner.

      “Is that a moral failure?”

      “Yes!  How can you… christ, here, just take a taste.  I can’t sleep tonight if you don’t.”

      “If you insist.”

Mycroft swirled his tongue slowly around the presented cone and was proud of himself that he didn’t smirk with pride at how his Gregory’s pupils dilated watching him take his taste.  Or at how his Gregory’s tongue unconsciously retraced his own path across the frozen concoction to sample both the sweet treat and Mycroft’s own flavor on his tongue when he was done.

      “I believe you have converted me, my dear.  It is quite delicious.  Sweet, but buttery and rich with depth that one would not credit from the garish green color.  But you _are_ one to find the beauty beneath the exterior, aren’t you…”

Trust Mycroft to get him aroused over a quick ice cream stop.  He _so_ needed to get laid… by someone other than the man still staring into his eyes.

      “Hey, it’s the most colorful in any shop unless they have some mint rubbish.  You get ice cream to make you happy and what could be happier than a big mass of bright green frozen deliciousness?”

Mycroft leaned in a second time and licked again at Lestrade’s cone.

      “I can think of nothing.  Well, perhaps I can, but it is not appropriately mentioned in a family establishment.”

The cool of the ice cream on Lestrade’s tongue contrasted sharply with the heat on his face and he took a big bite of the top scoop to buy himself time before answering.  Unsurprisingly, he could think of nothing clever to say.

      “You are a filthy man, Mycroft Holmes.”

      “Only to a very select few, my dear.  Now, shall we continue on?  We still have things to do and places to go.”

      “Only if you stop calling me ‘my dear.’ “

      “As you wish.  But ‘my precious’ is so sadly Gollum-like…”

      “I can’t win, can I?”

      “No, so but you are so cute when you try.”

__________

They visited the National Gallery, with Mycroft again being the perfect guide, stopped for a quick lunch then took a stroll through the zoo, a nod specifically to Arthur’s particular interests and, though he would not admit it, one of Lestrade’s guilty pleasures.  He had come here, on occasion, when the weather was nice and the wife was being… less than nice.  Another SIM card of photos documented their day together and it was with real regret that Lestrade settled back down into Mycroft’s car for the trip back to his flat.     

      “Are you certain I cannot convince you to join me for dinner, Gregory?  One last activity to place the feather in the cap of our day?”

      “No… I brought home some work that I need to tend to and I’m sure you’ve got your own things to deal with.  A whole day off has to be pretty inconvenient for you.”

Not if he had a week to plan and had already prepared himself to work throughout the night without sleep.

      “Not as inconvenient as you might believe, Gregory.  Especially when the cause is such a righteous one.  But I defer to your judgment and offer no protest.  Though I will gladly confess to enjoying our day immensely.  No matter our circumstances, that has not seemed to change.”

No, it hadn’t.  Damn Mycroft in all conceivable ways, but they did seem to fit very well together.  And damn him again for making _together_ absolutely impossible…

      “Yeah, it was good.  I can’t honestly say the day was a waste.  Now, put her in gear and chauffer me home.  It’s nice to see you work for a change.”

      “And I do it proudly, for it brings you such joy.  And do remember, you have promised to examine my girl and diagnose her little issues.  I shall hold you to that, my dear.  It is comforting to know she will be in respectful and knowledgeable hands.”

Naturally he would remember that…

      “Lestrade’s don’t renege on promises, so I’ll give her a look over first chance I get.”

      “Most acceptable.  Now, I hope you do not mind taking the proverbial long way home.  It is not often that I get to take on the city streets and I feel quite pulled by the need to indulge myself.”

      “Have at it, but if I see a sign saying Edinburgh 2 km, you _are_ going to get a broken nose.”

      “Fear not, the city alone shall be my playground.  And I do value the quality of my nose…”

__________

It was over an hour and a half later that Mycroft parked his BMW in front of Lestrade’s house.  They had roamed the city, talking about everything and nothing and Lestrade crushed the wish that bloomed in his chest that this would be more than a one-time event.  Encouraging his weak and pathetic heart to think otherwise was counterproductive to trying to reclaim his life.

      “And we return to where we started.  It has been an experience to treasure, Gregory and I have no doubt Arthur’s excitement over his photographs will nearly consume Fitton.  Thank you, my dear, for participating.  It was generous of you to donate your time in this manner.”

      “Not a problem.  And believe me, that surprises me a little to say.  I mean I’d do anything for that boy, I just…”

      “Did not think you would find your own enjoyment in the day?”

      “Close enough.  Goodnight, Mycroft.  I… I had a very nice time.”

      “As did I and I look forward to our next meeting, which could be our second film experience with young Arthur.  If I am not lucky enough to share your time before then.”

Why did Mycroft have to speak to him like that?  Why did he have to speak as if they were still feeling their way out as a couple.  And why did he have to look at him like that?  With those stupidly beautiful eyes and sexy lips… lips that tasted like sun and spice…

Lestrade had no idea when Mycroft leaned in to kiss him and had less idea why he allowed himself to be kissed.  All he knew was that his world clicked into focus for the first time in weeks.  That everything suddenly felt right and good and safe… it was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life to push Mycroft away and stop the only thing that seemed to make him feel truly alive…

      “Mycroft, you can’t… you can’t do this to me.”

      “But you do feel it, my Gregory… even if I could not taste it on your skin, which I most certainly did, I can see it in your eyes.  You still want me…”

 Not this… not now… Why did Mycroft have to push him when there was nothing to hit but a brick wall?

      “Of course I do!  I hate myself for it, for how weak and pitiful I am, but yes!  Not that it makes any difference at all, because I won’t let you hurt me again, but I won’t sit here and lie and say that I don’t want to climb over there and take you apart… and let you do the same to me.  But that’s never going to be an option, so do not touch me ever again.  Do not even… I’ve gotta get out of here…”

Lestrade flung open the door to the car and felt no shame in the fact that he nearly ran to the door of his building.  He did feel shame that when he was caught and pressed against the door by Mycroft, none of his self-defense training raised itself up to take a stand.

      “I will not say I am sorry, Gregory, because I am _not_.  The errors I made cost me your touch and I will not be sorry for stealing one when it was so utterly sweet, though you may think me lecherous or opportunistic.  In truth… I am simply slave to my appreciation of beauty, especially beauty that stands out of my reach…  Trust that I shall not allow my baser instincts to compromise you again and that our continued association will not be tainted by my faults of character.  Now it is my turn to say goodnight, my dear.  I shall speak to you again soon.”

Mycroft turned to leave, but was grabbed tightly by Lestrade who freely allowed the anger he was feeling to fully express on his face.

      “You will never do that to me again, Mycroft.  I have no idea what you’re playing at, but I’m not a toy for one of your games.”

      “Of that I am certain, Gregory.  You are most assuredly no one’s toy.”

He was a _prize_.

Lestrade released Mycroft’s arm and watched as the man walked to his car and drove away.  Not until he was sure Mycroft was gone did he climb up to his flat and hurled himself onto his sofa.  At least Mycroft hadn’t pointed out the erection he was sporting.  Was this normal?  To lust after the person who’d cut your heart out and crushed it under his heel?  Why were Mycroft’s kisses still purely perfect?  How could he be happy and content spending a day with the man, when he’d torn him to pieces not once, but twice?  Maybe he needed to talk to someone.  They always had a couple of counselors floating around the building at work that he could drag into his office for a little chat.  Find out if he was completely a sad excuse for a man or if there was some hope he’d get his chance for a fresh start.

Well, at least once he’d gotten Mycroft Holmes out of his life for good…


	27. A Flicker of the Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I prefer posting longer chapters, but the last one seemed to stir folks up a bit, so I chopped the first part of the one I was tidying up and... here it is. Short, but it might restore some hope that shadows can only exist where there's still light...

Perhaps panic attacks were genetic and Martin’s own breakdown was now his.  Mycroft drove until he was fully out of sight of his Detective Inspector, parked and then sat there with heaving breath and a wave of anxiety crashing through his body.  He had no idea how long he sat there with his mind whited and opaque as a snow drift.  It was only through applying the full measure of his considerable force of will that he was able to return himself to his home and drop heavily onto the sofa in his study, hoping that the fire would help melt the frost that had gripped his mind.

What was wrong with him!  Delicately… he was supposed to be delicately handling Gregory, giving him reasons to trust and keeping the fire of affection smoldering… he was not supposed to be compromising his dearest in such a fashion!  This was a disaster!  A disaster of his own making.  Again.  Yet again.  The day had been more wonderful that Mycroft could have imagined and he had imagined _many_ wonderful things but today… Gregory was simply radiant.  He took such great joy in everything and it was truly a pleasure to share that joy and contribute to it whenever and however he could.  It was not with a small amount of pride that Mycroft had been able to demonstrate all of the little facts and snippets he had acquired over the years as they strolled through exhibits and past paintings and how beautifully Gregory’s face had glowed listening to the tiny bits of trivia Mycroft could offer.  And it was for _him_ … Gregory was happy to be with _him_ , without the wealth, power or position… Mycroft could not even remember a time he had spent so little money entertaining a consort.   Gregory had relished their time together accompanied only by a Mycroft Holmes stripped bare of his usual artifices and that was why he knew the man was the one person with whom he could have the loving home he had thought would always remain a carefully-buried dream.

But now… he had kissed him!  The calm and relaxed day he had crafted completely undone by… Gregory had looked utterly beguiling.  His regret at ending their time together was clearly evident in the slight cant of his head and shadows in his eyes.  And with his skin bathed warmly by the setting sun… Mycroft had no more consciously decided to kiss the man than he consciously decided to breathe.  And it was… home.  It was the beckoning light at the end of a trying day.  The familiar scent and taste and feel of the only safe and welcoming thing in his world… and for that act of selfishness, he had hurt his Gregory once again.  Something he had never intended.  A simple day… just a small bit of time to prove himself a little more.  Show more of the sides of himself that appealed to his Gregory.  Present himself as  a better person than events of late had painted him and if he earned his love’s smile for his troubles then that was sufficient.

And what was Gregory thinking now?  He had told him he was not part of a game, not a toy or a pet, but why should the man believe him?  He acted in a manner that screamed to the heavens that he was toying with his affections, maneuvered him like a piece on a game board to achieve the ends he desired, without any consideration of how Gregory’s own feelings came into play.  The man was still attracted to him, still experienced happiness in his presence and he was using all of that against him.  True, the goal was one that he truly believed the Detective Inspector wanted, but his methods… Mycroft threw a sofa cushion across the room and wished it had been something that would have shattered on impact.  Gregory was worth more than this.  He deserved better than such shabby treatment, such manipulation… but what could he do?  He honestly had no idea and, further, had no frame of reference to even evaluate any ideas he might generate.

But he had to do something.  He was dishonoring his Gregory and that was not acceptable.  He had vowed to cause no further harm, yet he was breaking that vow with frightening regularity.  How could he one day face his Gregory and ask for forgiveness and another chance for a life together when he had continued to commit such atrocities upon his person?  Today was to be a simple, joyful day… why had he ruined it?  Taken advantage and committed such an act of betrayal.   Was he that weak?  He who had stared down the start of wars and come out victorious… could he simply not hold back his own desires to allow the Detective Inspector some peace?  What to do… it was…

The sound of his mobile ringing propelled Mycroft upright to fumble in his pocket for his phone.  It was no tiny stab of frustration when he saw it was a matter of work… but he would view this as serendipity.  He was only going to continue to spiral downward in his current frame of mind and nothing useful or positive could come from such chaotic thinking.  He would focus on the areas in which he excelled and replenish his confidence before again turning his thoughts to his Gregory.  There _was_ a solution to this… there _was_ hope and potential and possibilities… there had to be… Mycroft wasn’t entirely sure what would happen to him if there wasn’t…

_________

Lestrade found that work did a good job clearing his mind and almost wished he’d brought more home with him.  Almost… At least it took his mind off of Mycroft for awhile.  He should have given the prat a bloody lip.  What was he playing at?  None of it made any sense!  Well, it did… if Mycroft was a completely cruel and disreputable bastard… but something seemed wrong.  Mycroft was a slippery eel, there was no getting around that but Lestrade wasn’t an average chap off the street.  He hadn’t risen to his rank despite his skills, but because of them and _all_ of them were saying something was off.  There were more lies floating about than there were ants at a picnic, but not all of it felt like an untruth.  Or maybe that’s what he wanted to think.

But today felt like… it felt like the night around his kitchen table.  Comfortable, open, almost carefree.  The sourness of the lie of fooling Arthur was always thick on his tongue, but it didn’t feel as much like a lie today.  Mycroft was the absolute gold-medal winner for deceit, but today had felt honest.  Even… as much as Lestrade wanted to ignore it, the kiss had been honest.  Mycroft had wanted it as much as he did and it couldn’t just be a case of lust because… well, all he had to do was say goodbye and head home to his young and virile bed partner.  And the look in Mycroft’s eyes wasn’t fake.  It wasn’t possible to fake that particular combination of softness and fire that meant real passion and desire.  And caring and affection… What in the hell was it all about? He was upset, too, afterwards.  His little apology wasn’t nearly his usual quality of word magic and even through clothes, Lestrade felt the tremor in Mycroft’s body as he pressed against him.  For a moment, he was certain something was primed to break.  At minimum, another kiss, but maybe something else and he couldn’t turn away from the shameful part of himself that had raced out to wait for what it hoped was a tearful plea to be taken back.  Jesus, he really did need a counselor.  Someone to make sense of all of this… he’d been cheated on, lied to, insulted, ignored… laughed with, adored, treated as a friend…

And another thing… they could have gotten Arthur’s pictures in no time at all.  Made a few quick stops to change the background and been done by lunchtime.  But they hadn’t.  They’d spent the entire day together.  One very long and very full day.  Didn’t need to do that to get the job done.  And, come to think of it… Arthur hadn’t really said anything to him about needing more photos.  And Arthur was not shy about asking for things like that.  As it was, he still needed to write up the requested ‘Five Best Cases that Had Mr. Sherlock in Them’ report and fill out the ‘What Greg Thinks is Brilliant!’ questionnaire, which included an extensive essay section.  But… he hadn’t pleaded poor for pictures.  Strange that Mycroft had caught that complaint but not him.

You don’t have to have many years on the job to develop those hairs on the back of your neck that stood on end when something wasn’t right.  And when that happened, there was only one option.

Dig deeper.


	28. Questions are Made to be Asked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing to offer sincere gratitude for all comments and kudos... they are very welcome things...

Lestrade was very, very proud of the fact that despite the quicksand of his life his job hadn’t been dragged down along with the rest of him.  Though, on days like this, he wondered if that was actually a good thing.  Raining, of course.  Chilly, naturally.  Body that one couldn’t call fresh, excellent.  He’d already spent two hours taking statements from the workers at the warehouse where the body was found and there wasn’t a cup of tea in sight to help warm his bones.  However, there _was_ a rapidly approaching Sherlock Holmes and he had nowhere to hide.   Lestrade gave himself even odds that he’d get home tonight to find a family of stoats sleeping in his bed and his books shredded for nest material for a seriously agitated and possibly rabid pigeon.

      “Why was I not called sooner?  With your well-known lack of efficiency and the inevitable mistakes I shall have to remediate in your conclusions, I should have been here long before now.”

      “Actually, I didn’t call you at all, if you remember.  In fact, I told you, when you called me, that the one place you didn’t want to be was here because it was (a) boring and (b) miserable, two things you don’t react well to.  Now here you are… not reacting well to it.  John doing his doctoring again?”

      “Yes.  He refuses to simply dedicate himself to me full-time, despite the obvious imbalance of enjoyment between working our cases and his dreary nose-wiping.”

      “Leave him be, Sherlock.  John’s a doctor and likes being a doctor.  Plus, it’s good to get a break from each other now and then.”

      “Nonsense.  My life is not restructured whether John is present or not, therefore a so-called break is unnecessary.”

All Lestrade could do was shake his head and try to keep from laughing out loud.  He also had to wonder if the only thing in John’s tea was _tea_.  The man had a suspicious amount of patience.

      “Know what you should do?  Get John set up in private practice.  Nice little office, set his own schedule, have a no-snotty-tots policy.  I’m sure My… Mycroft would help you out with that.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed sharply catching the stutter.

      “You are still emotionally perturbed by the dissolution of your relationship with Mycroft.”

      “It’s not something that vanishes like an unattended pint at a family reunion, you know.”

      “No, I do not know.”

      “And good for you that you probably ever won’t.  But… have you… is something going on I don’t know about?”

      “An uncountable number of things, without question.”

      “Ha bloody ha.  I mean with your brother.”

      “Why would you have any concerns about Mycroft?”

Sherlock fixed Lestrade with that very familiar look that said he was answering his own question before you had time to say anything.

      “You are not reconsidering your absence from Mycroft’s life?  I assure you that your choice was correct and there is no reason to revisit the decision.”

      “I didn’t say that… I just wanted to know… something strange is going on and I’ve not got a handle on it, that’s all.”

      “Once again, why would you even care?”

      “Because it’s bothering me, that’s why!  Something you should know a lot about.  Get a stone in your shoe it just keeps nagging at you until you dig it out.  He’s been acting strangely and…”

      “WHAT!  How do you know any details of Mycroft’s behavior?  Has he taken any action to harass you?  I gave him fair warning that if he discomfited your life that I would…”

Lestrade pulled Sherlock farther from his now attentive team and rounded on the flushed young man.

      “Calm down, lad… your brother hasn’t…”

Well, he couldn’t actually say he hadn’t been harassed because, that word did cover _some_ things pretty well.

      “Mycroft’s not done anything specific, Sherlock… I’ve, uh… I’ve had a little contact with him concerning Arthur and there’s something that sits wrong with me.  So, I just wanted to know if you had any information… insights… stuff like that.”

      “If I had them I would not share them and further encourage you to interact with Mycroft.  He had nothing to offer you, Lestrade, and I cannot imagine that you would lose the necessary self-respect to take anything he offered, should even that option be presented.”

And thus the less than restful sleep he’d gotten last night.  How much self-respect could he _have_ if he enjoyed yesterday so fucking much?

      “I’m not diving head first into his bed, Sherlock… did Arthur teach you how to pretend to choke yourself to death like that?... but I am going to end up running into Mycroft now and again and I just want to make sure I’m not standing with one foot on a banana skin.”

      “If you hope to ever be fully apprised of the ‘truth’ as it concerns my brother, you shall find yourself grossly disappointed.  You cannot ever know the truth with him.  I suspect that _Mycroft_ no longer knows the truth of himself anymore.  Let alone this situation.  He will bring you nothing but distress, Lestrade, regardless of what he might promise or posture.  It is not in his nature to be part of anything that would give you benefit.  It _is_ in his nature to make use, to discard and to remain, ultimately, in the one state he feels most comfortable – alone.  Now, I will reassert my instruction to put as much distance between yourself and Mycroft as you can.  Perhaps you can find another willing person with which to partner.  In fact… I shall set John on the task.  He is uncomfortably skilled at securing the attention of individuals who seek relief from their loneliness and desperation.”

      “I do not need John Watson to find me a date, thank you very much.  But, I tell you what.  Why don’t the both of you come over to the flat this week and I’ll cook up something nice.  That’ll be one night you won’t have to worry about Mycroft perpetrating unwholesome actions on my innocent young body.”

      “I shall agree if you permit me to make a joke about either the word ‘innocent’ or ‘young.’ “

      “I can take it – give it your best shot.”

Sherlock stood and Lestrade could see the gears turning furiously.

      “I can think of nothing.”

      “You can collect later, don’t worry.”

      “I shall ask John for assistance.”

      “You do that.”

__________

  _Let alone this situation_ … interesting for Sherlock to say that.  Could mean their melted-down relationship.  Could mean something else.  Could mean nothing.  Boy did like the sound of his own voice.  Sherlock was still concerned and that was a good thing, but… in the grand scheme of Mycroft Holmes’s life, Lestrade was a fly.  Unless he was malicious, which was not something Lestrade read on the man, for whatever that was worth, Sherlock’s concern that Mycroft would be harassing him was strange.  Why harass _him_?  He’d been fine to leave things well enough alone, so there wasn’t any reason to make his life hell.  But… Sherlock might interpret many things as harassment… including Mycroft drawing Lestrade into film nights and trips with ice cream as a bonus.  Did he know?  _He_ hadn’t said anything to either Sherlock or John about his and Mycroft’s little scheme, but had Mycroft?  Doubtful.  It didn’t fit.

But had Mycroft said _something_? Something to make Sherlock worry that he was still somehow in the picture?  The brothers weren’t the type to share, but something might have passed between them.  He should have pushed… or maybe not.  Sherlock had a tendency to clamp his lips tighter than a miser’s fist around a pound note when he was pushed… so, he needed another source of information.  Not John… John would have said something by now.  Called him out to the pub to put their heads together and he hadn’t done it…  But there was another option…

__________

      “Greg!  Oh this is wonderful!  We just landed and I’m cleaning GERTI and no one talks to me when I’m doing that so it’s rather boring unless I play some of my songs on my phone, but when I hoover I can’t hear them and that’s a bit of a sour biscuit, but I can talk to you and when I have to hoover I’ll just talk a lot louder.  So how’s London?  What did you do today?  Did you arrest anyone?  I bet they were absolutely horrid if you did and that’s a good thing because…”

      “I had a splendid day, Arthur, thanks for asking.  Didn’t make any arrests, but did catch a new case that might be promising.  His Dark Majesty showed up to take a look, too, even without me having to call.”

      “Oh, Doctor Watson must have been working.  Mr. Sherlock seems to get very lonely when Doctor Watson is at the clinic.  Even his new lab doesn’t hold his attention very well unless Doctor Watson’s in the flat.  Which is odd since he won’t talk to Doctor Watson at all while he’s working on one of his experiments, but if Doctor Watson’s not there he gets a bit twitchy and I’ll start getting lots of texts or a phone call until Doctor Watson gets back, which is brilliant, even if Mum does hit me with a her purse and tell me pay attention and not run people over with the shopping trolley.”

Lestrade had to chuckle… it had been quite awhile since Sherlock had held conversations with John when John had long left the flat.

      “You got it completely right.  John’s working and he needed a distraction.  He’s heading to the morgue now and Molly will be happy to keep him company.”

      “Oh!  John told me about her, she seems very nice.  Next time we’re in London, I’d like to meet her… but not at where she works, even though I know it’s very important work, but I’m not sure that I could… maybe we could meet in a nice park instead and feed the ducks.”

      “Molly would enjoy that, she’s an animal fancier, too.  So how have you been doing, lad?  Haven’t heard from you since yesterday.  Good flight?”

      “Well, if she loves animals, she has to be a very good person and that’s moved straight up to the top of my list when we visit.  And we had a great flight!  It was just over to Denmark, but it’s so pretty there.  Even the airfield was lovely and it’s not often I can say that!  I took lots of pictures, so I’ll pick the best and send them to you later.”

Which was the perfect opening…

      “Good job, I’ll enjoy every one.  But how about from our end?  Getting enough photos from London?”

      “Oh tons!  I mean I get lots and lots for everyone there and it’s brilliant!  Skip even got me some old ones of when Mycroft and Mr. Sherlock were kids to add to my albums.  They were so cute!  I can’t wait until you can see them.  Or I can take a picture of the pictures and send you _those_ pictures and you could see them right away!  What a super idea!  I surprise myself sometimes with what I come up with.”

Lestrade knew he’d never be able to survive if he didn’t get copies of kiddie Mycroft and Sherlock pictures.

      “I’d love that, Arthur.  Really, I can’t wait.  But you’re sure you ok with things from this direction?  Anything else you need?”

      “Hmmm… can’t think of anything.  Everyone sends me things and it’s almost like I’m there with you so I can be part of everything.”

      “You’re sure?”

      “Yes… but, Greg you sound a little funny.  Like you’re trying to detect something funny.  Not trying to detect something that makes you laugh, I mean, but like something that’s a bit odd.  You’re making your words long and that’s a definite sign.  So what’s going on?  I’m not fibbing when I say I have enough pictures, if that’s what you’re worried about.  I mean I could always use more but…”

      “Don’t worry, Arthur, I don’t think you’re fibbing.  But… has Mycroft said anything to you about photos.  Or me.  Or anything… that you might want to share.  With me.”

      “Oh… I’m n… not really sure what you’re asking.  Not really sure at all.”

Now, that was an example of sounding a little funny.

      “I’m going to say that maybe you _are_ sure, or at least you have some idea of something that would fit the bill.  Want to share your thoughts?”

      “Well, if I have a choice, then I’ll say no.”

      “Then I’ll remove that choice and say I want some honesty here.  Is there something you know about Mycroft that concerns me?”

      “Ummm… lots actually.  Which is brilliant, if you think about it!”

      “Ok… good job… now, anything not so brilliant?”

      “Oh… I try not to think about things like that.  And I mean at any time, not just when you’re asking me questions.”

That was something Lestrade had no trouble believing.

      “Fair enough, sounds like a good philosophy.  Let’s try this, instead.  Without making yourself upset, can you at least say _if_ there’s anything that is not so brilliant that you know about?  No specifics if that bothers you…”

      “Well, it doesn’t really bother me, though it sort of does, but that’s ok since it’s not really bad, though it’s sort of bad, but not _bad_ bad if you know what I mean…”

      “I can honestly say that I have no clue what you mean.”

      “Don’t feel bad because that happens to me all of the time.  I’ll try again and go slower this round.  I don’t know of anything that’s really bad or not brilliant because it’s not really, only sort of and that’s pretty much all there is to say about that.”

There was such an undercurrent of nerves in Arthur’s voice that Lestrade didn’t have the heart to press him further, even though it would probably answer his questions.  Sometimes, though, the ends just didn’t justify the means.

      “I can’t say I fully understand, but I know you’re sincere so I’m ok with that.  How about I ask a couple of easy questions and you answer if you can.  How does that sound?”

      “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

      “Good… now here’s the first one.  Would you say that there’s something I don’t know about the relationship between Mycroft and me?”

      “Oh!  That’s rather a hard one.  I mean… I don’t know everything you and Mycroft know about you and Mycroft so I don’t know if anything I know is what you’re asking about.”

Well, that was extraordinarily helpful.

      “Good answer.  Really, well done… well thought out.  Now, here’s another.  If you were me, would you be happy or sad about what you might or might not know about whatever it is you might or might not know about.”

      “Oh, I can answer that one!”

Fantastic.

      “Both!”

Not so fantastic.

      “You’re doing super, Arthur.  Now, here’s a hard one.  Think you’re up for it?”

      “I do.  It’s amazing… I always lose at question games, but when I play with you and Mycroft I do much better!”

      “Good to know… and I’m happy for you.  Ok, here it is.  Would you, if you were me, pick Mycroft as a… boyfriend?”

      “Hah!  That’s not a hard one at all.  Yes!  Oh, he’d be a brilliant boyfriend.  Not for me, I mean, because there’s no one as wonderful for me as Skip, who is absolutely Skip Brilliant!, but if I was you, then I would be thrilled to have Mycroft as my boyfriend.  No matter what he… no matter what!”

There was nothing in Arthur’s speech patterns that raised any red flags.  He was telling the absolute truth as he knew it.  Whatever was going on, Arthur didn’t see it as a significant problem.  But there _was_ something…

      “So I should be a happy Jack that someone like Mycroft is in my life, that’s what you’re saying?”

      “Absolutely.  I mean, things might be a little woggly now since… well, since everything’s new and getting sorted out, but I just know that with a little time everything is going to be brilliant!

 _Is going to be_ … what had Mycroft told Arthur?  Maybe planted a little seed that things were not all jolly rainbows and stuffed orangutans.  Or something else?  Lestrade knew he could question Arthur all week and not nail down anything more detailed.  At least, not without upsetting the lad.

      “Well, that’s good to know.  Lots of help, actually.”

      “Really!  Then, hurray!  I love to help people!  So anytime you need to ask me any more questions, you can just ask away and we can have another game.”

      “I can always count on you, can’t I mate?”

      “Always.  Seriously, I mean that exactly like it would be in the dictionary.  You can count on me for anything, anytime and anywhere.  And Skip too!  Though he might not know what’s going on since he doesn’t always pay attention when I talk about Mycroft or Mr. Sherlock, so he doesn’t hear things about you and Doctor Watson, but he’ll help anyway.”

      “I Like the sound of that.  Good to have friends when you need them.”

      “That true!  Having friends is the best!  And I’m planning a party for Skip so all of his friends can get together and celebrate the fact that we found him and he’s well, he is by the way… no slip ups yet.  You’ll come, right?  I’ve inviting you and Mycroft and Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Watson and you all have to come.  And Mum says that if she’s got a house full of visitors she’s not going to _be_ in the house, so it will be like a huge sleep over with just us chaps.  So you’ll be there?  I don’t know exactly when it’s going to be because I have lots of plans, but Skip gets silly and says I’m making too much of it and then we go back and forth and back and forth, so it could be awhile.  But you’re coming; I think we already decided that, didn’t we?  Good, so I’ll make sure to let you know the date so you can plan and take a few days off or even more than a few days off… a holiday!  Oh that would be brilliant!  Have a holiday with us in Fitton and everyone could be there and I bet Mycroft could do something to make sure that GERTI didn’t have to work during that time so we could all be together.  Or maybe we could go flying!  Yes!  We could take a day or two and go flying and go somewhere fun and it would be like a real family holiday with Mum and Herc and Douglas… oh this is perfect.  Thanks Greg!  You really get my brain working.”

And to think he didn’t even have to say a word.  And… both him and Mycroft were included in that big family holiday…

      “I’ll do my best, Arthur.  Just give me a lot of notice, ok?  Not too easy to get a time off scheduled what with all the criminals not really caring if a man needs a little holiday for his peace of mind.”

      “Sure!  I do see how that could be a problem, so I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”

      “Good lad.  Now… well, I guess I’ll leave you to your cleaning.  Got plans for the rest of the day?”

      “Actually, yes.  I’m cutting Skip’s hair for him.  It’s gotten a bit shaggy and Mum called him a sheep dog the other morning, which I think should be considered a good thing, but Mum and Skip didn’t agree with me.”

      “And have you ever cut hair before?”

      “Not as such.  I’ve trimmed Snoopadoop’s face before when she got into some of my porridge and it turned a bit cement-like, but this will be the first time I’ve done it for a person.”

      “Arthur, I want your solemn word that you will send me a picture of the end result.”

      “Oh absolutely.  Skip will be so handsome I’ll want everyone to have a picture.”

And Lestrade was certain Martin would be _just_ as thrilled to have his photo distributed.

      “I’m sure of it.  I’ll leave you to finish up then, since you’ve got a big evening planned.  And thank you, Arthur.  You were very helpful.”

      “You’re welcome!  And I’ll send you all my pictures tomorrow.  Oh, and can we do breakfast radio this week?  We don’t have any early flights so it could be any morning.”

Starting the day with Arthur singing along to crap pop music was a surprisingly energetic way to start the day.

      “That’s a great idea.  You call me any morning and if I’m still home we’ll have a right old time.  Even a couple of mornings, if you want.”

      “Thanks Greg!  And a film night soon? Me, you and Mycroft?”

      “Oh, no doubt.  Next week will be good for that, I think.  You work out the details with Mycroft and let me know what you come up with.”

      “Brilliant!  Oh, I hear Mum coming and she’s got that stamp-y walk that means I really need to be hovering.  I’ll talk to you soon, Greg.  Bye!”

      “Bye, Arthur.  Take care.”

__________

Mycroft had something going on.  That much was certain.  The problem was there were too many possibilities and not enough information to make one really stand out.  He could put together an argument for something nasty as easily as something good.  But, he had one thing now he didn’t have before… a place to stand.  He might be inside a game, but at least he knew that now and no one said a pawn couldn’t toss rocks at the king if he was so inclined.   And now was the perfect time to get started.

__________

      “Gregory?  Is everything alright?  I had not thought I would hear from you so soon.”

      “You mean you didn’t think you’d hear from me _ever_ , you tosser.  Don’t try to cover it all up with chocolate and cherries.  Now, I just got off the phone with Arthur and he wants his film next week.  The only way I will agree to that is if I get a token from you that you are actually sorry for the crap you put me through yesterday.”

The two seconds of silence on the other end was a very sweet victory in Lestrade’s pocket.

      “I will gladly make my apologies tangible, Gregory.   You have but to ask.”

And Lestrade did.  In detail.  The five seconds of silence on the other end was a victory of epic proportions.

      “Well, Mycroft?”

      “Surely, you are not serious.”

      “I am.  And it’s non-negotiable.”

      “Then I am left with little choice.”

      “I’ll be looking for it tomorrow.  Don’t disappoint me, Mycroft.  Not this time.”

      “I will not, my dear.  And thank you.”

      “Night, Mycroft.”

__________

Lestrade was just finishing the last of his bacon when a brisk knock sounded on his door.  The stony-faced, suited man on the other side handed him a large envelope and left without saying one word.  Lestrade saved his grin until he was alone and dumped the envelope’s contents onto his kitchen table.  And it was perfect…

The photograph of Mycroft, full body, in only a pair of blue boxers, standing straight with arms at his sides printed on heavy cardstock.  Also included was a very diverse body of printed out garments, such as swimming trunks, a wedding dress, those awful big jeans the kids wore, a leather jacket, various shirts and skirts… Mycroft had had a busy night by the look of it.  What did it say about his desire for Lestrade’s forgiveness that he made a paper-doll Mycroft for him to play with at his leisure?

_This is the most brilliant thing ever!  Film night is on – GL_

_I am glad you are pleased, my dear – MH_

_Oh, more than pleased.  Got you in a pair of skinny jeans and a tropical shirt with straw hat right now – GL_

_I may not even go to work I’m having so much fun – GL_

_Anything to make you happy – MH_

_As it should be.  I’ll take a look at your car tomorrow afternoon – GL_

The last two texts came quick as a rabbit.  This next one took a moment.  This was going to be a good day…

_I would greatly appreciate that.  I shall have her available and send a car to retrieve you.  Simply text when you are available – MH_

_Sounds good – See you later.  I’m off to play with paper-doll Mycroft.  He’s my new best friend – GL_

_I am glad to be of service.  Until tomorrow, my dear – MH_

__________

Mycroft’s staff was used to being banned from his office, but not for an entire night.  And they were definitely not used to being readmitted and finding their employer in anything other than a foul mood.  But… Mycroft Holmes wearing a smile might even be more worrisome…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was forced to set up with Tumblr (don't ask), so feel free to visit. My name there is eventhorizon451 and I will be posting things associated with my fics including outtakes. If there's something you'd like read, let me know and I'll see what I can do...


	29. No Table is Too Large That it Can't Be Turned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos arrive and each one is given a good home. Feel free to send as many as you like...

Lestrade frankly didn’t care that he was attracting stares as he whistled his way out of his office, because he was feeling good.  Mycroft might be planning some arcane magical ritual in which he figured prominently as a naked and pentacle-painted human sacrifice but he frankly didn’t care right now because he wasn’t on the sacrificial slab yet and there was fun to be had.  All the way home he whistled and hummed and hit his door in a near run as he raced to the bedroom to start getting dressed.  Ah yeah… this was going to be perfect.  Ok, jeans, shirt, shoes, jacket… good to go.  Time to page his ride.

__________

He had called.  And demanded his token of apology in such detail that Mycroft had a difficult time completing the entire task in one night, especially since his body seemed to have gone rather feverish at the thought of his intended partner running his hands all over him, even though it was only his paper form.  How utterly masterful of his Gregory to insist on the absolutely perfect punishment for his nemesis.  And another meeting… true, he had given his word to perform repairs on the BMW, but after Mycroft’s spectacular gaffe, he had no presumption that the man would honor that word.  Yet he was.  And everything was prepared.  His beloved automobile sat proudly behind the house in the courtyard where his Gregory could attend to his work with some privacy.  And Mycroft would have unlimited vantage points to simply linger and watch his man accomplishing his task.  Perhaps he could offer something afterwards.  A refreshing cocktail or small meal to refuel him after such manual laboring.  Without any aggravations in the form of physical lavishments of affection.  This time, he would not fail his Gregory.

At the sound of the car delivering the Detective Inspector, Mycroft straightened his tie, smoothed his jacket and walked outside to greet his guest.  And suddenly felt like a sadly awkward schoolboy, as Gregory exited his vehicle and turned, with a large and disarming grin, to face him.  Tight, aged and slightly torn trousers clung lovingly to Gregory’s legs, and parts somewhat associated with his legs.  A tight and stunningly-white shirt was molded to his chest and peeked teasingly out between the lapels of a faded and plainly-styled leather jacket.  In black.  To match the scuffed black work boots on his feet.  And his hair had been finger-combed… there was simply no other explanation for the perfectly mussed appearance.  Mycroft had never experienced the clichéd feeling of having his breath taken away, but he hoped his body did not require oxygen for any time in the near future.  Supremely classic, the apex of masculinity and predatorily sexual.  Now… good lord, were his knees weakening?

      “Hiya, Mycroft… see my baby’s here, ready, willing and waiting for me.”

INCUBUS!

      “It is a delight to see you, Gregory.  And so gracious of you to perform this little service for me.”

      “Oh, servicing you is my pleasure.  Hah!… that came out a little wrong, didn’t it?”

Yes… well, that is to say… no.

      “I believe I gleaned your meaning properly.  With what can I supply you to make this more amenable?”

Oh my, that could be interpreted… yes, Gregory’s grin rather said it all…

      “Not a thing.  I make sure to always come prepared.  Just in case, you know.”

Was the man’s bottom supposed to jut out quite so… firmly… just from retrieving a toolbag from the floorboard of a car?

      “Good day for this sort of thing.  Lots of sun, break from the chill.  Pretty soon, we’ll be getting them regular.  Fine little setup you’ve got here, too.  Must be nice in the summer.”

Mycroft had never been so pleased in his life to remember that the surveillance in this area was in high-definition color and would capture every nuance of his Gregory strolling, or could it properly be called swaggering, with his toolbag across his courtyard.

      “It is.  When I am able, I sit in the evening and enjoy the quiet.”

      “Not much view of the night sky in the city is there, though.”

      “True, but I do have a residence in the country that has unparalleled views of the stars.”

      “Really?  Now that’s the life.  Sitting around under the greatest sight in the universe, with nothing but insects and owls bothering your ears.  And no one _else’s_ ears to bother if things get a little loud, am I right?”

Gregory’s smile had absolutely no permission to stroke Mycroft’s nether regions and would be well advised to cease immediately.

      “That is but one advantage.”

      “I’ll bet.”

At least when the toolbag was set on the ground, Gregory did not see fit to present his impertinent backside a second time.

      “I’ll be sliding around underneath now…”

Gregory Lestrade was officially a very bad man.

      “… so if you have something you need to do…”

      “I believe I can spare the time to keep you company.  It’s the very least I can do.”

      “Alright, sounds good.  I’ll get started.”

Mycroft was of two minds and not entirely sure if his Gregory was more heart-stoppingly handsome with or without his jacket, which got tossed onto the ground and positioned with his foot to provide groundcover as he worked.  In a plain white shirt, with his warm eyes and strong arms… oh good, someone did remember to bring out a convenient chair in which he could sit.  And cross his legs.  Which was a lovely way to sit, if the very bad man continued to wriggle himself around underneath his car and… what a nice logical pathway.  Wriggling on one’s back leads to one’s shirt riding up from the waist which ends with a very nice view of a flat expanse of lower abdomen, tantalizingly provided with fine silver hair.

      “Good day at the office?  Stop the invading hordes at the border?”

      “Most assuredly.  You may hold fast to your mother tongue.”

      “That’s a blessing since I’m crap with languages.  I’m sure you speak a couple, at least.”

      “Ah, at least.  I have always had a talent in that area.”

      “Good with your mouth, you mean?”

Was it possible there existed a pill or tincture that would cool a misbehaving libido?  Surely someone had devoted as much research into that area as its converse?  How unseemly that he was beginning to wriggle in his seat.  Especially since it was not an entirely unpleasant experience.

      “One might say so.”

      “Only one?”

Only one that mattered.  And if he didn’t behave himself, he was going to find out just how good Mycroft actually was with his mouth.  And how expedient that his Gregory was already laying on his back with the zipper of his trousers being strained by the pressure of holding back…. oh, this was unacceptable!

      “Would you care for something to drink, Gregory?  I can offer you a wide assortment of beverages.”

      “Water’s good for now.  Thanks.”

      “Then excuse me for one moment.”

__________

A peek from under the car showed Mycroft hustling away with that familiar walk of a man trying to make a cool and calm exit while sporting an erection that could be used to cut glass.  Hah!  Excellent.  Nice to get a little of his own back…

__________

What an intolerable man!  Laid out like he was presented as an offering on a banquet table with Mycroft as the only guest and… and Mycroft couldn’t have a taste.  Not one single lick or bite or sniff or… he’d never suffered a diet so nearly impossible to follow.  But it was _nearly_ … he could do this.  There was no one currently in the Western Hemisphere with a will to rival his and the idea of being undone by Gregory Lestrade was completely unthinkable.  Laughable, even… perhaps a quick trip to take care of a certain personal problem… no!  This was now a challenge to his fortitude and Mycroft Holmes _never_ backed down from a challenge.  So, one glass of cool water for Gregory and a few splashes of the same across the face for himself and it was time to carry on.

__________

Did the man have no sense of fair play?  There was not a single reason that his legs should be so wantonly splayed… really, why would one need to bend their knee in such a manner?  And could he not have worn a looser shirt?  One that did not crawl up his body so that his entire, glorious belly was visible and simply begging to worshipped by Mycroft’s tongue.

      “Your water, my dear.  I shall set it down for you.”

      “Oh, thanks.  Whoops, was that your ankle?  Sorry, just reaching for the glass.”

Now it appeared that his Gregory had developed superpowers.  How else to explain how Mycroft’s skin could feel like it had been subject to an electric shock through a trouser hem and socks?  Perhaps that part of him remembered the last time Gregory’s fingers had wrapped around his ankle, and foot and toes… oh, bugger all.

      “My fault entirely.  I shall retake my seat and avoid obstructing your reach.  Have you perchance deciphered your riddle?”

      “Actually, I need a little more information, but I’m nothing if not patient.”

      “Then take your time, we have a measure of sunshine left and I do have lights to illuminate the courtyard should they be required.”

      “Oh, you mean the car?  Well, the _car_ I’ve got the story on.  Not a big problem, just needs an adjustment.  Won’t take long…”

Now what was his innuendo?  It had to be something incalculably tawdry if it was above Mycroft’s proficiency in… lascivious double-speak.

      “Bastard of a bolt is stuck, though.”

      “Oh, do you need…”

No… not at all excusable.  One does not groan when lying on one’s back in Mycroft Holmes courtyard unless Mycroft Holmes is the cause.  And why were his hips off of the ground!  Was that a grunt?  Dear heavens, Gregory, do not… put your knees back down and close your legs you demonic creature.  That was not reverse psychology!  Hips down… down down down.  And if you grunt one more time, something will prevent a reoccurrence.  With very naked prejudice.  And of course he ends his performance with a shout.

      “YES!”

      “I… I shall… I shall get you more water.”

      “Actually, I really need your long hose.”

Oh dear, mustn’t kick rocks towards the car.

      “You’ve got one, right?  Give the old girl a wash for you.”

Mycroft hated Gregory Lestrade from the deepest pit of black hatred that lay within his even blacker heart.

      “I could never ask that of you, Gregory.  That you have taken your time for this repair is enough of a blessing.”

      “Nah, just a few more minutes and I’m done down here.  Got plenty of time and I enjoy this sort of thing.  Really, no joke.  Now, go find some hose to slip me and I’ll be ready when you get back.”

Apparently his former assessment had to be revised.  There was a forgotten cavern _beneath_ that pit of hatred that was even blacker and rife with mythical creatures of murder and mayhem so old and malevolent to have been mercifully forgotten by even the genetic memory of humankind.

      “As you wish, my dear.  One moment.”

__________

Oh, still walking a tad funny.  When good ol’ Mycroft finally does get some private time he’d better have an entire _box_ of tissues nearby…

__________

Nothing could faze him now.  Mycroft had so decreed.  So, of course, Gregory had to immediately put it to the test since he was a viperous seducer.  Let me wash your car for you, Mycroft.  I enjoy it, really, it’s good to put the body to work.  Now, just let me remove my shirt, use it to wipe the sweat off of my godlike chest, toss it aside like male stripper and set about washing your car.  And, by washing, I mean bending over and writhing across your vehicle in a primal display of sexual promise and unquenched need.

      “She’s looking good, huh?”

No… don’t turn around and lean back… do you ever listen?

      “And I just may have a little surprise for you.  Grab it out of my toolbag for me.   The round tin.  Pull out a couple of more rags, too.”

It was probably some form of body grease so he could slide more smoothly, skin to metal.  Tart.

      “Thanks.  Noticed she looked a little faded.  Not too bad, so a quick compounding will shine her up nicely.  Watch…”

Oh, whatever you choose to do next please make it to rub hard and emit lewd sounds of pleasure.  And he _is_ bisexual, so the gender of the car is not any impediment to his lust.

      “See that!  Come here… you can’t see from all the way over there, you git.  Come here… right here…

__________

Good boy, Mycroft.  Don’t stand to the side to see what I’m doing, lean over my shoulder.   Maybe I’ll buff the paint just a bit more and… oh, is that your groin I’m accidentally rubbing with my bum?

__________

DAMN YOU TO HELL INCUBUS!  Could the man not be stopped?

      “Ah, I believe I hear my mobile.  A moment, my dear.”

His tie was far too tight… hell and be damned EVERYTHING was too tight!  And the minx continues to polish and grind and slither and stretch and the sun on his skin is… he now had a fetish for Gregory’s sun-touched skin.  There are worse things, he supposed.  They lived in London where the sun forgets to shine, so survival would be handily achieved.  As soon as he… oh, improper… that is dancing.  Mycroft’s courtyard was now a gentleman’s club.  His Gregory was humming and dancing and… he did move beautifully.  As bewitching now as when the devil was in his arms waltzing across the floor of his entertainment room.  Confident and flexible… Mental note – do not associate the word ‘flexible’ and the accompanying mental imagery with Gregory Lestrade when attempting to curtail wayward and downward-directed blood flow.

      “Hey Mycroft!  Got any glass cleaner?  I want to wash your windows!”

Wash my windows, indeed.  There are trollops in the heart of the city who are not so forward.

      “I shall inspect my cupboards.”

And doesn’t a cool cloth feel relaxing on the back of the neck…  And it is likely that one of those may be found somewhere near the cupboards as well…

__________

      “Now, that’s a shine.  You ok over there, Mycroft?  Looking a little peaky.”

Leave well enough alone, demonspawn.  Please lean over slowly and huff another soft breath against the paint of the car instead, if you’d be so kind.

      “Simply contemplating a matter of work, nothing of consequence however.”

      “So, what do you think?  She’s a winner, isn’t she?”

The car was spectacular.  Despite being professionally minded, it had not looked like that in years, as if it had been waiting patiently for Gregory’s tender affections.  The paint gleamed with such a depth, it appeared to be made of crimson-colored glass, which reflected its caregiver with perfect clarity.  Each window and touch of chrome sparkled and he had even treated the tires so they absorbed every ray of light that landed upon them.

But none of that could stand tall against Gregory himself, glistening from his exertions, trousers still damp so they held his body with an even tighter grip, skin flushed from the sun and face shining brighter than the paint, decorated with a large grin of pride.

      “She is magnificent, Gregory.  I cannot express fully how astonished I am with what you have accomplished.”

      “Just a bit of work, a little love and some basic know how.  Now, you mind if I grab a shower before I leave?  I brought a change of clothes.  Hate to have to ride home sweaty and wet.”

It was shameful how quickly Mycroft was lulled into a false sense of security by the wicked enchanter.

      “My home is yours, my dear.  Follow me and I shall get you situated.”

And not think about his Gregory naked, water flowing across his body to wipe away the trails his fingers lay down as he ran lather across his… Mycroft swore to any god who would listen that he would erect a shrine in their honor if they would break the control Gregory Lestrade has gained over his mind.  That would include any relevant candles, statuary, flowers or other sundries.

      “Thanks, Mycroft.  You’re a real mate.”

In the sense that Mycroft wanted to rut him like an unhinged Alpha wolf, Lestrade was quite correct.

__________

A towel.  Naturally.  And not one of the largest ones in that particular bathing chamber.  Cinched with a tidy fold directly on one narrow hip, with the rest lying low and… that navel would perfectly cup a spoonful of warm honey…

      “Can you hand me my togs?  Completely forgot to bring them when I jumped in the shower.”

Please approach my nearly-naked form, feel my skin radiating its natural heat stoked by the added fire from hot-water caresses, and smell the heady aroma of freshly-washed male wafting off my skin like a rich perfume of come-hither pheromones.

      “I trust everything was satisfactory.”

      “Very.  Full body jets?  Bloody amazing.  And let me tell you, they do reach _every_ part the body quite easily.  Be back in a minute.”

And scamper off leaving an enflamed Mycroft Holmes with the fantasy of just how you might have been enjoying those versatile sprays of water.

__________

      “That’s better.  Nothing makes you feel as good as a hot shower after a good day’s work, is there?”

      “I am inclined to agree.  There are days when the thought of a long shower is a powerful motivator to apply myself more forcefully to find the solution to a current problem.”

      “Noticed you had a nice bathtub, also.  Take a soak now and then?”

Do not sway attentions towards your body lying between long legs in a marble bathing tub, back pressed against a welcoming chest…

      “Occasionally.  I find a bath a surprisingly efficient place in which to think.  Minimal distractions…”

      “I should give that a try.  When I get a place with a tub, that is.  Hard to think in the shower when you’re pressed for time and need to get clean plus give yourself a little _alone time_.  But you do come out with a clearer head, so that’s a bonus.”

Do not make eye contact when you use phrases like ‘alone time’ despoiler.

      “I shall be happy to assist you when you choose to examine real estate.  I must say, my dear, you are especially buoyant today.  Your own workday must have been supremely successful.”

      “Nah, not many surprises there.  Truth is, got a bit chatted up this morning and that put some extra bounce in my step.”

Chatted up?  Someone had the _audacity_ to approach his Gregory?

      “Oh… an interesting conversation, I take it?”

      “Well, got myself an invitation for a pint next time my squad plays.  I’ve got a neighbor a few doors down who follows my boys and asked me to join him to watch the next match.  That’s the bad side of drinking with John… his side should be called the hoovers because they suck.  Painful to watch him suffer like that.”

The _neighbor_ … approached his Gregory… and proposed an evening out…

      “Mycroft, you feeling alright?  You’ve gone rather red.  I mean, it’s not like I’m standing here telling you I’m heading out to shag this...”

      “You will not accept his invitation, I presume?”

      “Why not?”

Because the only person you shall, to use the vulgar term, shag is standing in this room.

      “If you truly wanted to spend time with this individual, you would have used his name.  Or mentioned him at an earlier time.”

Do not encroach on personal space at the exact moment you slowly run your tongue over your firm and talented lips.  It is simply good manners.

      “That would imply I really cared.  Maybe I just want something fast and fleeting.  Let someone show me a good time for a night…”

      “ _That_ is not an option.”

 _That_ was not wise.

      “Oh?  Why’s that?”

As if Mycroft would divulge his reasons.  And the satyr he was facing had no reservations walking forward to stand so close he was breathing in the very breath Mycroft exhaled and Mycroft could see each of the scattered flecks of gold in his entrancing eyes.

      “You are a better man than that.”

      “You know the expression, Mr. Right or Mr. Right Now?  Don’t have the former, so why can’t I sample the latter?”

Because he would be joyfully tied to Mycroft’s bed and shown the shortsightedness of his thinking.

      “You are not one to be satisfied with merely a sample.  Especially one from a substandard source.”

      “Well, my supply of sources is running low, so maybe I should take what I can get.”

“Maybe you should cease this willful misperception of your situation.”

      “Misperception… I’d say the facts line up pretty well with my thinking.  And why should I be alone when I’ve got an option to explore?”

      “BECAUSE THERE IS A BETTER OPTION IF YOU ARE SIMPLY PATIENT!”

 _That_ was incalculably unwise.  And his Gregory knew it.  Smiling like the Cheshire Cat…

      “I’m not really sure _I’m_ the one that needs to learn patience.  But… I _can_ be a patient man.  Patient when I think there’s a reason to be.  When no one’s trying to cross the line until my patience can be rewarded, that is.  And as long as I think it _will_ be rewarded.”

What?  That was… that could not be exactly as it sounded.  And how could Mycroft even begin to think when there was a warlock taking in the scent from his neck.

      “So, I’ll head home now and let you enjoy the rest of your evening.  We’ve got a film next week, don’t forget; so pass along the details when you get them sorted.  And let me know how the car drives, ok?  I don’t mind stopping by if you have need of my well-trained hands.  See ya, Mycroft…

Oh good, the bad and confusing man was leaving.  Now Mycroft could think.  And he needed to think.  He very much needed to think… and not stand there silently watching the most stunning man in the world walk away into the darkness…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ideas, rants and bits starting to show up at http://eventhorizon451.tumblr.com/
> 
> Check out [this piece I commissioned](http://eventhorizon451.tumblr.com/post/90871334941/justaholmesboy-commission-for-eventhorizon451) from [justaholmesboy](http://justaholmesboy.tumblr.com), especially for this chapter...


	30. Closing a Chapter Begins a New One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thank each and every one of you for all of your kind and thoughtful support! Keep the comments coming!

      “Are you going to tell me why you keep grinning?  You look like a bloody serial killer clown.”

      “John Watson has no sense of humor.”

      “Seriously, how many did you have before you met up with me?”

      “John Watson covets other people’s good moods.”

      “Stop talking about me in the third person!”

      “John Watson is a testy man.”

      “I will pick up my phone, call Sherlock and tell him you’re grinning like a loon and see how fast he gets here to ruin your day with his deductions.”

      “Can’t josh with you at all can I?  You used to be fun, John and now you’re a fussy and black-spirited chap.  You just let me know if you need me to put you out of your misery.”

      “You know, I was wondering if that was a question I was going to have to ask _you_ soon, after how many times I’ve had to pick your heart off the floor lately.”

      “That was the old Greg, say hello to the new one.”

      “You got a little, didn’t you?”

      “No… not yet.”

John waved at the server to bring another round.

      “Ok.  I’m waiting.  I want all the details, even the ones you try not to think about when people are around because they make you feel tingly down there.”

      “Nothing much to tell.  Met up with someone, gave them the old Gregory Lestrade charm and… they were interested.”

      “Didn’t I tell you!  All you had to do was turn on the smile…”

      “…and the too-tight jeans, the white shirt, that black jacket I nearly donated to the church charity and these old boots.”

      “See… that’s not fair.  I couldn’t get Sherlock into a sex-on-wheels outfit like that if I bought him the mummified corpse of a pygmy to play with.”

      “Yeah, I can’t see him slumming it with the rest of us, even if you tossed in a sex book and told him he could start on page one and go from there.  Just not his style.  But that’s ok… it’s not like you’re unhappy with his bespoke wardrobe.  If you remember, I had to slam you on the back to get you breathing the last time he walked out of the bedroom with a new plum shirt.”

      “He does look good in plum.”

      “If you say so.  I think he looks like grape, but I’m not the one in love with him.”

      “Love or no love, I’d still to see that arse of his in a raggedly old pair of jeans, faded band shirt on his back.  He can keep the scarf.”

      “Ah, the cheap and quick wardrobe of seduction.  Worked wonders for me…”

      “You have _got_ to give me the story.”

      “Really, nothing happened.  Not one bodily fluid swapped.  But, I’m not ruling it out for the future.  I think I can count on a little continued attention.”

      “Got another date set up?”

      “Next week.  Just a low-key thing.  Watch a film, probably have a beer or two.  I’m not pushing for anything at this point and neither is he.”

      “It’s a start.  But you’re hoping for _some_ version of _anything_ , aren’t you?”

      “Oh yeah… but not right now.  Wait until the time is right.  No use rushing into things.  Again.”

      “That wasn’t your fault, Greg.  And you know it.  But hey!  Who cares when you’ve got another fish on the hook?  You’ll let me know how things go right?”

      “I will at that.  In high-def Technicolor.”

      “I’ll bring some paper.  To take notes.”

__________

Quiet days in the world did occur, but not often and when they did, Mycroft was normally out-of-sorts due to a lack of items to occupy his mind.  Today, however, he had items standing at the ready.  One, to his despair, an evening with Edgar at a fashionable, yet completely unpalatable, restaurant with persons that had to be treated with great delicacy for they were an important portal through which he must pass to move forward with his ongoing initiative.  The second was _far_ more agreeable - ruminating on his Gregory and the interesting gauntlet that had been thrown down onto the floor of his home.

Patience… what an extraordinarily curious and intriguing conversation.  There were so many possible avenues of examination for his Detective Inspector’s words and actions and Mycroft now had a day to explore each with care.  At its most simplistic, Gregory was perpetrating a small act of revenge for his own teasings and takings of advantage.  It would be fair, more than his due, but that explanation did not ring true.  To go to such lengths for a petty repayment of sexual turmoil… Gregory was a man of substance.  He was light-hearted and harbored a very appealing streak of wickedness, but he would not dedicate such a portion of his free time for something as empty as pointless revenge, even if the immediate taste was sweet.

The far terminus of the spectrum was also unlikely, that he knew the truth about Edgar.  It was of note that Gregory never asked about the man, never made a single comment though he went so far as to take a shower in Mycroft’s home.  That should have pushed some statement to the fore.  A question about what Mycroft’s new associate would think about a man parading naked through his home.  But there was nothing.  And patience… _as long as I think it will be rewarded_.  Was his Gregory thinking ahead to the future?  Their future?  A future that Mycroft had removed from the road of time with his unforgiveable carelessness and shortsightedness.  Or so he had believed… was that perhaps presumptuous?  No… he had far too much evidence for the devastation he had wreaked on Gregory’s life.

Something had, therefore, changed.  Only Sherlock and Arthur were positioned to divulge his secrets and neither would do so, for their own separate reasons.  And he would know if Gregory had taken it upon himself to independently investigate the individual at the core of his pain.  So where had the shift occurred?  And what did it, ultimately, mean?  If there was a certain thing in all of this it was the clarity of Lestrade’s imperative that he be subject to no further of Mycroft’s lapses.  And that was a more than valid demand.  Of everything he craved from his Gregory, respect was the most vital.  Continuing to visit harm upon him would render that feeling unachievable.  It was a miracle that it might still reside in Gregory’s regard for him at all!

But it _might_.  If it did not, Gregory would not speak of patience.  Patience was for what you valued and you do not value what you do not respect.  Patience was for what you desired and you do not desire the things for which you have no esteem.  The choking sensation with which he had been living began to ease a little.  Gregory would return for an evening with Arthur.  He would come if Mycroft called for his vehicle’s good health.  He would be patient.  He put his flesh on view and also, if Mycroft was optimistically-minded, his feelings.  There _could_ be light.  Where there had been nothing but darkness, there could be a spark of light that had ignited.  It was a tiny spark and would require careful and dedicated nurturing, but it _could_ be real, not a figment of his tortured imagination.  And that was sufficient.  More than sufficient, actually.  For his part, he would patrol his mental wanderings and pluck out any that would lead him to actions counterproductive to the chance he was being offered.  He would take good care of his Gregory and respect his wishes and person.  And for these feeble gestures, his Gregory would be patient…

__________

What neither man would admit was that every text they received over the next few days was a disappointment.  Every phone call a frustration.  Both knew this was right and proper for a couple that was no longer a couple, but both fervently wished that the other would commit some small impropriety.  Just a simple message to say hello… and neither was overly surprised that Mycroft was the first to break.

      “Lestrade.”

      “Gregory… it is good to hear your voice.”

      “Yours too, Mycroft.  What’s up?”

      “I have spoken with young Arthur and it appears that Tuesday evening would be a convenient time for our next little gathering.  Is that, perhaps, amenable to you?”

      “Tuesday… that might work.  We caught a nasty case that’s going to be bollocks to resolve, but I think I can make Tuesday.”

Especially, Mycroft thought, if he applied some of his own assistance on the fringes of the investigation.  Or lit a fire under his brother to get him to dance faster.

      “I am happy to hear it.  If it becomes unfeasible, I shall, of course, understand.”

      “Thanks.  How… how’ve you been?”

      “Busy, quite busy.  And you?”

      “The same.  Always someone doing something they shouldn’t in London.  How’s my girl?”

      “Excellent.  The transmission behaves as if it is newly manufactured and I have had to entertain four offers of purchase based solely on how she appears.”

      “Tell me you didn’t take any.”

      “Never!  Especially now that I have a private caregiver at the ready.”

      “And don’t you forget it.  No apathetic garage boy is going to lay hands on my baby, if I have any say in the matter.”

Patience… and permanence…

      “My mind is much eased by that proclamation.  Perhaps…”

Patience… but respect…

      “… you might enjoy taking the car out for a drive?  You have simply to ask and I can make it available for you.”

      “Really?  That would be fantastic!  Where can we go?”

We… Mycroft was actually unsure as to the other being involved in the plural.

      “I have often found that she performs at her best on long expanses of quiet road.”

      “Jaunt in the country… I like the sound of that.  Something we can think about when you’ve got some time free.”

      “Oh… you desire that I accompany you?”

      “Well, it _is_ your car, Mycroft.  I’m not going to take out a man’s car and not invite the man along for the ride.”

      “Ah, of course.  Very sensible of you.  I shall check my schedule for an appropriate opening.”

      “Sounds good.  Look, I’ve got a constable hovering outside my door so I think I’m needed for something.  See you Tuesday, ok?”

      “That is my and Arthur’s hope.  Goodbye, Gregory.”

      “See ya, Mycroft.”

Mycroft set aside his mobile and added this new body of information to the mental file devoted to his dear Detective Inspector.  He made an offer, a simple and innocent offer, which his Gregory gladly accepted and then found himself invited to participate.  Apparently, proper behavior receives reward.  Very Pavlovian, but he would not look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth.  A long drive in the country with Gregory?  He knew many a wonderfully scenic route to follow that would bring them into contact with delightful villages and vast stretches of calming landscapes.  Innocent.  Chaste.  Enjoyable.  With a mental back pat, Mycroft pulled a file across his desk and returned to matters of state, a satisfied smile lingering on his lips.   Patience…

__________

      “Mycroft!  Hi!  Hi Hi Hi!  Oh this is brilliant!  I am so ready for film night that I could just scream, but Snoopadoop gets rather upset when I do, so I’ll not scream, but tell you that I want to so it will at least be second-best.  Is Greg here yet?”

Not yet.  But he would be soon.  Mycroft was not particularly proud that he had taken to occasionally checking the hitherto fore dormant surveillance feeds for the Detective Inspector’s office, but it did keep him abreast of extremely pertinent information such as his prospective partner had lost an unacceptable amount of weight working the monumental number of hours he was devoting to his current investigation.  True it was a multiple homicide and, also true, it involved a minor member of the bureaucracy; however that was not an excuse for him to ignore his welfare yet again.  This time, Mycroft did not send food since that would be an admission to blatant spying and that would certainly not sit well with Gregory.  But it was a nagging ache that he could take no overt action to take proper care of the man who was working so hard to find justice for the victims who would never know of his efforts.  He had, though, done what he could.  A simple text to say good day, a candid observation of no consequence beyond its ability to bring a smile… he had even spent two hours of his valuable time consuming digital information to find an amusingly-captioned image that Gregory might enjoy.  Fortunately, his Detective Inspector found hedgehogs appreciably funny…

      “Not yet, but he shall arrive shortly.”

      “Yeah!  I wasn’t sure, even though you said he’d come that he’d actually come because… reasons.”

      “Arthur, what are you talking about?”

      “Nothing.  It just what people say when they don’t want to say so that’s what I decided to say.  Can we talk about Skip’s party now?

      “No, I think we need to speak about whatever it is you are trying to obfuscate.”

      “I did try to skate once.  Mum had a dent in her car for the longest time…”

      “Not ‘skate,’ my boy.  Obfuscate.  You are trying to withhold information and doing a frightfully poor job of it.”

      “No… not really.  It’s just… Greg asked me some funny questions and I was hoping they didn’t mean that he was getting ready to not be your boyfriend, even though that’s not really what his questions were saying, but sometimes I can’t tell when people are asking a question and it means what they’re asking or if it means something else like the complete opposite of what they’re asking.  But he _is_ coming, right?”

So Gregory _had_ been investigating… at least with dear Arthur.  But it did not sound as if he had asked any _dangerous_ questions.

      “I would say he is but minutes away.  Is there, however, anything about which you would like to make me aware, Arthur?  Any bit of information that you think would be to my benefit?”

      “Well… no.  And that’s me being completely honest.  Greg just asked if there was something going on that he didn’t know about and I didn’t actually 100% say yes, but I didn’t actually 100% say no either.  So, it sort of all balances out.”

Hmmm… Gregory had scented a sourness on the wind and mined the one source of information that would be most likely to provide gold instead of coal.  Fortunately, Arthur’s gold was multi-colored and drawn into many complex and perplexing shapes…

      “That it does.  Ah… and that is a knock at the door.  Excuse me one moment.”

      “Hurrah!  Greg’s here!”

It was a blessing when your charge loved both of his guardians dearly.

__________

      “Hello, my dear.  I am happy you could attend tonight.”

If only for the man to have a chance to relax.  Gregory’s appearance was distressing.  He looked a step from unconsciousness from fatigue and the lines of his face stood in sharp relief from both the lack of sleep and proper nutrition.  A good meal, a warm, shared bath and a warm, shared bed was what his Gregory needed and besides the first, albeit in rudimentary form, Mycroft could not provide.  And it hurt.  It hurt miserably not to be able to give his Detective Inspector the simple comforts he needed.  Patience… Gregory had weathered this many times and would find safe harbor for this particular storm, but in the future… their future… he would not have to endure alone.

      “Wouldn’t miss it.  Nice spot of entertainment is just what I need.  When’s Arthur going to show?”

      “He is already in attendance, actually.  Care to join us?”

      “Got my beer?”

      “As many bottles as you like.  And I took the liberty of having more than popcorn to fuel our time together.  I hope that is acceptable.”

It was not right that his Gregory’s eyes should light so brightly at the thought of nourishment, but at least _he_ would be the one keeping the light shining.

      “I could kiss you right now.  I haven’t any grub since breakfast.  Lead on and don’t get between me and the lunch line.”

Mycroft tried not to reflect on what his Gregory’s kisses tasted like and simply smiled as he escorted the Detective Inspector into the entertainment room.

      “GREG!  I am SO glad you came!  Mycroft said you were working on a very tough case and he wasn’t sure if you’d make it, but I kept my fingers crossed all day, which made it a bit tricky to eat or visit the loo, but I did it anyway and it worked!”

      “Good to see you, Arthur.  I nearly didn’t make it, but… sometimes you just can’t do anything more unless you wait until morning.  Just going to grab myself a beer…”

So Lestrade missed the look that Arthur shot Mycroft that shouted many things, all of which Mycroft had already worked through in his own mind.

      “And do sample the trays I have laid out, my dear.  I believe I heard you stomach voicing its approval.”

      “Well, you definitely pulled out all the stops.  And how did you know I was a pushover for bread and cheese?  Bit of good bread, hunk of good cheese and the appropriate beverage and life’s a tiny plot in the nicer section of Heaven.”

A good thing to remember for their jaunt in the BMW.

      “Greg!  Greg Greg Greg… you need to have more than that little snack.  You’re looking quite thin and that’s not good.  I know because Skip’s been thin and it was a terrible thing for a lot of terrible reasons, so… Mycroft!  Get Greg something fattening!  A nice pie or platter of chips.  Or both!  Chips pie is actually quite good, especially if you bake it with lots of cheese, beans, apples and ketchup.”

This time it was Mycroft and Lestrade that shared the knowing look and it was Lestrade that braved the fray to answer Arthur’s concerns.

      “A man can live his life on bread and cheese, lad.  And there’s meat here, too, so it’s an abundance of wealth for the likes of me.  Where is your better half, by the way?  Do I finally get to meet him?’

Arthur appeared somewhat mollified by Lestrade’s explanation, but only somewhat.  Mycroft was certain that their next meeting would find his Detective Inspector tied to a kitchen chair while Arthur poured food down his throat.

      “They’re flying tonight.  Mum had me stay home because it’s a very important client and last time I flew with the gentleman she had to pay for his dry cleaning.  I may have had a little accident with my juice and a jar of those very red cherries you put on top of ice cream.”

      “Well, it’s their loss and our gain.  How about you get the film started while I make myself a very fattening sandwich.  Sound good?”

      “Brilliant!  And make it very _very_ fattening.  Mycroft, you’re in charge of checking.”

      “I shall gladly serve as a member of the nutrition police.  Perhaps there is a hat associated with the position.”

Arthur’s exuberant ‘Brilliant!” and Gregory’s chuckled ‘bastard’ greatly warmed Mycroft’s heart.  A loving home… he had thought them mythical…

__________

Lestrade’s battle was valiant, but the foe was too formidable for him to survive for long.

      “He’s so cute when he’s asleep.  Don’t tell him I said that because I’m not sure if policemen are supposed to be cute, which he absolutely is, and he might not appreciate me knowing that he’s a cute sleeper.  It’s not a secret is it?”

Not before, but if Mycroft had his way, it forever more would be.

      “I do not believe that Gregory would be angered that you viewed his slumbering state.”

      “Oh, good.  I’m glad he’s sleeping, too.  Mycroft, he looks terrible.  I mean besides being sleepy cute.  You’ll do something, right?”

      “My options are limited at the moment, Arthur, but I shall do what I can.  Police work can be extraordinarily draining and Gregory does not shy away from the rigors of his job.”

      “That’s what makes him Skip Brilliant!, but… ok.  You said you’ll do what you can and you can do amazing things so I’m going to believe that even if you can only do a little bit, if it’s a little bit of amazing it will still be super!”

      “I am emboldened by the faith you place in me Arthur and promise to take all possible steps to care for Gregory.”

      “Good.  Now that that’s settled, are you coming to Skip’s party?  And by you, I mean the you that means you and Greg.  Isn’t that weird, that one word can mean one person or two or a whole stadium-full.  I love words… they’re brilliant _and_ useful!”

      “I have cleared the necessary block of time on my calendar, however, I have not broached the topic with Gregory.  Although we _are_ operating under a flag of truce, I am not entirely confident he will agree to accompany me to your event.  It is a large departure from our current paradigm as it would involve not only the trip, but a stay spanning multiple days.”

      “Are you worried that he doesn’t want to spend the time with you or that it’s going to be hard for _you_ having him here?”

Arthur did not coat his words with sugar when the situation called for candor.

      “A bit of both.  We have made strides towards mending our ties and bindings, but I would be loath to put those repairs to a test at this point.  I am quite confident that another crisis will mean the permanent breaking of those bonds.”

      “Well, I guess I can understand that.  Greg has had a rough time and you can only have so many rough times before you hop off and find somewhere else to be that’s not so rough.  But you have to come!   With Greg!  Skip’s never met him and Greg’s never seen Fitton and if I don’t get to give both of you a big hug soon I think I might faint.  Or be like one of those people in the cartoons that gets pricked by a pin and they sputter away like a popped balloon.  You don’t want that to happen, do you?”

      “It would be to my everlasting shame if I allowed you to suffer the fate of a breached balloon.  I shall do my best to convince Gregory to accompany me to Fitton.  If he will not or cannot attend your party, I shall still be present to celebrate cousin Martin’s newly-found happiness.”

      “That’s all I ask.  So, do you want to watch another film?”

      “Not this evening, if you don’t mind.  I will need to tend to Gregory and my morning will have a very early start.  Perhaps…”

Not tomorrow night, since he was receiving Edgar and several of his friends for cocktails before attending a night at the theater.  Gregory would have had a wonderful time, if he could have graced Mycroft’s arm.  It was not with frequency that Eugene O’Neil was performed anymore and Edgar would surely be bored to tears.

      “Shall we share our breakfast in two day’s time?”

      “Sure!  We’re flying but you have breakfast really early so that will work perfectly.  Will you tell Greg I said goodnight?”

      “Of course. And goodnight to you, Arthur.”

      “Bye Mycroft!  I’ll see you for our breakfast!”

And that would be much to Mycroft’s delight.  Starting the day with Arthur’s insights made the world appear just a little better than was the true and ugly reality.  Now, he had to decide the fate of his dear Gregory, who was so peacefully sleeping that the thought of waking the man to place him in a car was unthinkable.  However, Gregory had not noticed, to date, that the armchairs in his entertainment room _reclined_.

__________

      “Gregory?  It’s time to rise, my dear.  Your day begins early, does it not?”

Warm.  Comfortable.  A nice smell.  And he was dreaming of Mycroft.  No fucking way he was waking up.

      “Gregory, my dearest.  You will be quite cross if I leave you here alone and you must depart without a proper cup of tea.”

Mycroft called him something nice.  This dream was just getting better…  and there were fingers in his hair…

      “If you wake now, you might even be gifted with a hot breakfast to accompany your tea.”

Food?  And fingers on his cheek as well as in his hair… maybe he could pick up his dream where he left off when he next found a minute to sleep.

      “I’m awake… sort of.”

A miniscule crack of one eyelid didn’t produce the image he was expecting.  No bare walls and definitely no thin sheets and blanket.  The throw covering his body was gloriously thick and had to be made of pure wool.

      “Mycroft?”

      “In the flesh, my dear.  You were far too exhausted to return home last night, so I left you to sleep.  I trust you were comfortable.”

He was still at Mycroft’s home.  In his chair.  Covered with a blanket.  And as content as a baby in its crib.  Comfortable was one word to describe things…

      “Yeah… very, actually.  Oh christ, I fell asleep on you guys didn’t I?  I’m sorry, that was right rude of me.  Arthur wasn’t too put out, was he?”

      “Not at all.  In fact, his concern over your condition was pacified knowing you would at least secure one good night’s sleep.  He is worried about you, my dear.  As am I.”

Lestrade looked around to find the mechanism to adjust his chair and, with Mycroft’s help, set himself upright.

      “I’m fine.  Just some long hours riding on my back, but nothing I’m not used to.”

      “Which I understand, though I do not approve.  Nor does Arthur.  I would suggest that you reassure him personally that you are not destined for an early grave due to overwork.”

      “I’ll do that.  You said something about tea?”

      “That I did.  And if you return to your favorite room of my home, you will find a clean toothbrush in the cabinet, as well as a razor.  If you desire a shower, I can provide you with clothing in your size and of a style that will not beg questions as you return to work.”

Lestrade was not at all surprised and, in fact, thought it was more than likely that Mycroft had full sets of clothing in a wide range of sizes on hand at all times for whatever reason work or life might provide.  Might as well put them to use.

      “I’d like that.  Give me ten minutes?”

      “Of course.  I shall start the tea.”

__________

Almost ten minutes to the second, Lestrade tracked through Mycroft’s house, following the smell of breakfast.

      “Wow.  I can see why Arthur sings the praises of your kitchen.”

      “It suffices, though I am very glad it pleases you.  I see the clothes were acceptable.”

And by acceptable, Mycroft meant merely acted as a worthy frame for a spectacular picture.  The plain trousers and shirt simply allowed his Gregory’s natural beauty to shine.

      “They’re more than acceptable, thanks.  I’ll get them back to you as soon as possible.”

Mycroft was ready to deflect the offer, but held back sensing it was better to not make the Detective Inspector feel beholding.

      “As you see fit, my dear, but now, please, have a seat.  I will prepare a plate for you.”

Watching Mycroft move in the kitchen was something Lestrade decided he could do for hours and never get bored.  The man commanded any space as if it was built specifically to bend to his wishes and that was incredibly attractive.  He even poured tea and plated… was that an omelet?... breakfast masterfully.

      “Simple, I’m afraid, but I rarely have occasion to prepare my own meals.  A rather shameful admission, but such is nature of my life.”

      “Nothing wrong with that.  Not enough hours in the day to do everything yourself.  This looks good, too…”

Lestrade took a large forkful of his omelet and had to smile at his host.

      “… and tastes even better.  Nice job.  And the tea’s good and strong, just as I like it.  I think you get a passing mark, Mycroft.  Maybe even a special recommendation for a job well done.”

Individuals schooled in the very art of compliments had plied their trade on Mycroft to no avail, but a simple remark by his Gregory put a bloom of a blush on his cheeks.  Which Gregory noticed.  And answered with his will-weakening grin.

      “I appreciate you kind words, my dear.  And I hope that places you mood in a suitable place to hear out the issue that I feel we must discuss.”

Lestrade set aside his fork and lost his grin, staring at Mycroft to gauge the seriousness of the situation.

      “That doesn’t sound good.”

      “It is not an unduly troublesome matter, but it might give you pause and I would, of course, understand.  Arthur is planning a party to honor the return of cousin Martin, among other events of significance, and invitations have been extended to us both.  He will understand if you cannot attend due to work responsibilities, but if you choose to attend, it would behoove us to attend jointly.”

      “Ok… that’s both less and more than I was expecting.  I mean… sure.  I can take a day off for that.  It’s going to be pretty brutal getting all the way out to Fitton and back in one day, but I’d do that for those boys.  Count me in.”

One foot in the door, but could Mycroft make room for the other.

      “That is heartening, Gregory, but I perhaps did not paint a full picture of the obligation.  Though the party will occupy only an afternoon and evening, the invitation is for a longer stay.  Several days, to be more precise.  Sherlock and John have already confirmed, so it is not as if we would be the only ones billeting in Fitton for the duration.  I know it is an imposition on your time, but this is the closest I believe myself, Sherlock or Martin has come to a family gathering in… oh, a very long time and I feel strongly that you should be a part of it.  If, for no other reason, what you have been to Sherlock these past years.”

Lestrade bought himself some time by taking a long drink of his tea, a bite of his breakfast and another long drink of tea.  Several days with Mycroft and the rest of the boys, without any position more official than family friend.  It was one thing to play the scamp to  Mycroft when he could still keep the distance between them at a comfortable and reasonable level, but… how would he manage that degree of closeness?  And keep his cool in front of everyone in their ragged little group.  On the other hand, it might just be the thing to pull a few more threads out of the yarn ball that he seemed to be in the middle of…

      “I’m not sure if I can take off the time.  It depends on so many things that I don’t know if I can say one way or another if I can break away.”

Mycroft took a sip of his own tea and absently picked at the food on his own plate.

      “Would you take offense if I were to say that I would gladly ensure that the time _was_ available to you?  Regardless of whatever things might arise?”

      “It probably should, but I’m used to your omnipotence by now.”

      “Then you will come?”

      “As long as you promise that we end this charade for Arthur’s sake while we’re there.  Come clean and let the boy down gently.  Probably be best if we did it in person, anyway.”

Interesting proposition, from Mycroft’s point of view.  And complicated his analyses of his Gregory’s behaviors… but it was not exactly something that imposed a real burden.  And, he would have opportunities between now and then to make the deception completely unnecessary if he read any of Gregory’s signals correctly.

      “I agree and applaud your reasoning.  I shall inform Arthur and Martin of our acceptance of their invitation.  Thank you, my dear.  This will mean a great deal to them.  And I shall be very glad for such delightful company.”

      “Should be fun.  I’m always up for a good party.  Is there anything else to do in Fitton?”

      “I believe the answer to that is ‘no,’ however, I have little doubt young Arthur will have a full slate of activities planned for our entertainment.”

      “Charades.  I can already predict that one.  Hope your acting skills are up to the challenge.”

      “I have played Charades in the Kremlin, Gregory.  Do not think you shall best me in this contest.”

      “This is the RC car conversation all over again isn’t it?  You don’t scare me, Mycroft.  I’ve got tricks up my sleeve you can’t even conceive of.”

      “And I expect you to demonstrate each one.”

      “Don’t worry, I’ll put on a good show.  Give you a repeat, too, in case once just wasn’t enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next stop - Fitton!


	31. A Change of Scenery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my thanks to everyone sending their support for this story!

Weeks… it was five weeks before they were able to leave the iron fist of London and take the trip to Fitton.  Despite what many thought to the contrary, Mycroft did _not_ have control of the stream of time and was unable to make it pass more quickly, though he would have given much for the ability.  Weeks of uncertainty about exactly what was the footing on which he and Gregory stood; weeks of continued aggravation from Edgar and the flock of flamingoes with whom he associated; weeks of a single steady line of communication since Arthur was the only member of his personal circle that would still speak to him.  If Mycroft were the type to keep a diary, the entries would have been much like this:

_Week 1_

Edgar was very lucky one of his friends was quick with a slap on the back when the gluttonously-sized portion of steak he pushed into his mouth cleanly obstructed his windpipe for I had no intention of intervening.  Being Edgar’s putative widower would in no manner impair my current initiative.  In fact, it might hasten my movement through their odious social ranks.

 Had one text message conversation per day with Gregory.  He approved of my attention for he responded to each enthusiastically.  Exclamation points and his preciously-juvenile smiley faces were used with abundance.  Did not make verbal contact, which was disappointing but Gregory’s current case prevents the allocation of time blocks devoted to non-work issues.  Must maintain vigilance that he does not fall into self-neglect.  And that he does not again speak with his neighbor, who has been circling and sniffing in Gregory’s vicinity much like a sexually-desperate canine.

_Week 2_

Visited Sherlock about a simple matter and John insisted on calling me Judas instead of my given name.  This made Sherlock smile, which further encouraged the man to add Benedict Arnold to his repertoire.  He was not pleased to be reminded that Benedict Arnold was _our_ ally and I am now apparently banned from issuing any correction to his knowledge of basic history lest he do a string of anatomically-impossible things to my person.

Three days in Switzerland with Edgar.  The country is forever ruined for me now.  I shall still enjoy their chocolate, however.

Had two phone conversations with Gregory, although they were unacceptably short and I was not able to initiate a discussion about his apparent decision to live on tea, coffee and bakery products.  I _was_ able to discuss matter with Arthur who informed me that this was normal police behavior during a difficult case.  That his information was drawn from episodes of television programs from the years between 1970 and 1990 was not reassuring.  I made it a point to visit Gregory’s place of work at the lunch hour and provide a meal to share, which was much appreciated if the rapidity of ingestion and steady flow of words of praise was any indication.

_Week 3_

Two days in Morocco and two more in Canada.  I called Gregory once, forgot about the time difference and was not pleased that he was still awake at what was 4:30 am in London.  Though the conversation was enjoyable in the extreme, I would have preferred him to be asleep.  Reviewed surveillance footage when returned home and am not at all pleased by his persistent lack of sleep.  I may need to make a personal visit to speak with him on matter, though the logistics shall be difficult since Edgar’s moans of neglect and abandonment require addressing before I can reclaim a minute of my own life.  I did enjoy a virtual lunch with Arthur and discussed his plans for the upcoming party.  I have agreed to have erected what he terms a ‘laser-tag’ arena on Mrs. Knapp-Shappey’s property, once he secures Martin’s approval.  I am not confident he will prevail.

_Week 4_

Disentangled self from Edgar long enough to coax Gregory into our drive in the country, though it was a hard-fought battle.  I staunchly kept to my personal promise not to discuss his physical condition, but I did make clear the fact that I was worried for him.  I think the effort was appreciated for I received more than a few brushes against my knee as he shifted gears and my Gregory is not that careless with his hand movements.  Mental note that a country drive will become a staple of our recreational activities in the future and not only because Gregory is astoundingly attractive when he is driving.

Visited Sherlock and suffered John attempting to stop my heart using some form of ‘evil eye’ magical behavior.  Both he and Sherlock were quite put out when the attempt was unsuccessful.  John made a point of telling me about Gregory’s new romantic interest, which was quite curious since the activities in which Gregory and his paramour have engaged closely resemble those that Gregory and I have been enjoying.  Apparently, my Gregory has not shared information about our continued, though modified, association with John or Sherlock. 

Long days myself this week with evenings intensely occupied until the very early hours with various activities I hope to be able one day to carve from my memory.  Breakfasts with Arthur more welcome than he could possibly imagine.

_Week 5_

_Monday – Wednesday_ :  How delightful of the Americans to require my assistance for a matter of their own creation and of blinding stupidity.  Fortunately, in a very unique use of the word, Edgar was able to accompany me, which has salved his temper somewhat over my leaving for Fitton.  Also, he had connections of his own to meet, which were decidedly beneficial to me, also.

 _Thursday_ : Spoke with Gregory this evening to make travel arrangements.  We agreed to leave from my home.  It was not a good thing that I had to ring him back to change the arrangements as I would not be alone here when he would have arrived.  Though I offered no reason for the change, it was obvious from his tone that Gregory discerned the reason.  It is much like a knife in the flesh to hear pain in his voice.  I can only pray this will not untie whatever it is we have been loosely weaving.

 _Friday_ :  Arthur is beside himself with final preparations for his party.  I have now learned that it is not possible to purchase one thousand helium-filled balloons in Fitton since only three hundred and fifty exist in the confines of the quaint little town.  Also, Martin can be rather stubborn about the script that tops a celebration cake.  I have been informed that Sherlock and John are holding to their plan to use the party as an excuse for a small holiday and reminded rather forcefully that I _shall_ be doing the same.

Final checks that all communication links are property established for trip to Fitton.  Final checks that Edgar has been fully appeased due to receipt of his new watch and long morning in Bond Street for a new wardrobe.  Not one piece of which will enhance his appearance as masterfully as did a plain white shirt for my Gregory.  Who was rather quiet today as I spoke to him to finalize our departure time.  I shall have to perform at my best to boost his spirits tomorrow during our drive.  I believe he had somewhat forgotten, as do I in his company, about the _complexity_ of our relationship.  The complicating factor currently wearing a watch that would purchase Gregory his own elderly BMW for which to care.

Crisis call from individuals associated with interests in South Africa ran late, but sufficiently early for an acceptable number of hours of rest.  Tomorrow… I need to be at my best.

__________

**Saturday**

Lestrade stood at the curb, keenly aware that he looked like a child waiting for Mum to pick him up from school.  And he was nervous.  Very nervous.  It had only dawned on him over the past several days just how difficult this was going to be.  He would be the odd man out and there was no getting around that fact.  And John and Sherlock… god but that was going to be a mess.  He’d be lucky if neither of them dragged him off somewhere for a little discussion and a lot of punching.  Maybe he should have bowed out.  Or just gone up by himself.  That wouldn’t have looked as poorly as arriving in Mycroft’s car.  With Mycroft.  Yeah… he really didn’t think this through.  But the time to change his mind vanished as a familiar dark sedan pulled up in front of him, with a driver that exited to take his bag and then open the door to the rear of the car.

      “Hello, my dear.  It is very good to see you.  All ready for our jaunt?”

      “Ready as I’ll ever be with Donovan calling me every five minutes this morning for last-minute nonsense.  I have no doubt, despite my warnings of immediate firing, that she’ll call several times while I’m away.  Think you can redirect my phone to a Starbucks or something?”

      “That would actually be a ludicrously small matter, but you would feel somewhat adrift without your connection to your job.  A feeling I understand perfectly well.”

      “I guess you’re right.  Just don’t blame me if the phone hits you on the head when I throw it.”

      “I assure you I shall take it with good grace.

__________

The drive was long, but the driver seemed to have no issue ignoring the speed limit, something for which Lestrade was grateful.  The quicker they got to Fitton, the faster he could feel out the timbre of the trip and settle himself down.  His anxiety was still high, though, and it was something which Mycroft, of course, had to notice.

      “Gregory, you seem rather out of sorts, is there anything the matter?”

      “No… not really.  Just have a case of nerves, that’s all.”

      “There’s no reason for nervousness, I imagine you are the consummate social butterfly.”

      “Oh, I can hold my own at a knees-up, but… this one’s different.  Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean, either.”

      “I would not offer the insult.  And I do apologize for not making the relevant connection before I spoke.  It _will_ be alright, my dear.  Arthur adores you and Martin, I have full faith, will be enamored, also.  Well, as far as Martin can be enamored of anyone besides young Arthur.  He is not one to bestow trust easily and for very good reason.  And of course, Sherlock and John will be in attendance and… ah.  I am not mistaken when I say that you have not informed them of our, shall we say, renewed friendship?”

      “No, you would _not_ would be mistaken.  Not in the least.”

      “May I ask why?”

      “You may, though you don’t have to, do you?”

      “No, but perhaps it is something you wish or need to say out loud.”

Lestrade ran his hands through his hair then self-consciously tried to fix the mess he’d made.  Mycroft wished he had not bothered.

      “Maybe I needed friends.  People to talk to.  Sherlock… _Sherlock_ stood up for me!  And John’s been there every time I needed to talk.  How do I just turn around and say ‘oh hey, thanks for that but I’m doing whatever-the-fuck-it-is-we’re-doing with Mycroft anyway.  Not much of a repayment for them being there for me is it.”

Mycroft reached over and lay his hand on Lestrade’s leg, squeezing gently.

      “It is _your_ life, Gregory.  Your decisions are yours alone and they are no one else’s to judge.”

It was moments like this that Mycroft most hated himself.  Unable to provide the full measure of comfort and reassurance that his Detective Inspector needed.  However, if he had been a different man, there would be no need for such comfort.

      “Sounds good in theory, doesn’t it?  It’s shite in practice, though.”

Not something with which Mycroft could disagree.

      “If they choose to withdraw their support, then it is their loss, but I do not foresee that happening.  After all… there is truly nothing for them to object to, is there?”

Lestrade slowly turned to stare into Mycroft’s eyes and both men knew there was no clear answer to that question.

      “I say again, my dear… it _will_ be alright.”

      “You probably shouldn’t call me that anymore.”

      “Perhaps for the circumstances you are correct.  However, your objections to my little indulgence have tapered off sharply of late.”

      “Even a dog can learn a new name.”

Mycroft grasped Lestrade’s leg more forcefully, then stroked lightly to soothe the ache.

      “Gregory, do not say such things.”

      “It was only a joke.”

      “Not even in jest.  If you can hold one thing to your heart, be it that I can never see you that way.  Not _will_ never, my dear… _can_ never.  But I shall restrain myself, if only to lessen the amount of Sherlock’s hysterics we shall have to endure.”

Lestrade made no move to remove Mycroft’s hand and could not stop offering him a smile, also.

      “And that’s always a good thing.”

      “Since the crib.”

__________

By the time the Knapp-Shappey household was in sight, even Mycroft was feeling trepidatious.  Of course, that might have, in large part, been due to the chaos of Bacchanal he was observing.  Apparently, Arthur had purchased his three hundred and fifty balloons, along with materials to outfit a birthday party fit for the offspring of royalty.  And there had to fifty people milling about, in various states of intoxication.  This would be extremely painful, but there was no doubt that Arthur would be ridiculously pleased by the revelry.

      “Well, I have to say this is pretty much exactly what I expected.  No, I take that back, I haven’t seen a clown, yet.”

      “And you shall not.  Martin called me personally to negate Arthur’s directive to conscript a circus troupe to perform.  Pity, booking Cirque de Soleil for a day would have been a trivial matter.”

      “Remind me to have you plan my next birthday bash.”

      “That planning has already begun, my dear.”

      “Can I have clowns?”

      “All you like.  Now, are you ready?”

      “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

      “Then follow me…”

__________

If he had had a poker, Mycroft would have put out the eyes of both his brother and his partner.  Gregory’s fears had been glaringly valid, for Sherlock and John’s faces went quickly from shock to anger and not all of it was directed at him.

      “HURRAH!  Mycroft!  Greg!  You’re here!  Now everything is perfect.  Really perfect.  Everyone is here and we’re going to have the best time.  Oh… this is so wonderful.  Skip!  You have to come here and meet Greg!  No really… come here.  Oh fine, don’t fuddle me with your math.  Come on, Greg.  They’ve got more Holmeses over there than we have over here so… oh, I don’t know.  Skip can be so confusing sometimes.”

And Lestrade found himself dragged by a very determined Arthur, closer and closer to the piercing stares of his apparently former friends.

      “Skip, this is Greg.  Greg, this is Skip. Now we all know each other.  Brilliant!  It’s like… oh, Skip, I could use a little help…”

While Arthur had a small weep on Martin’s shoulder, Lestrade took the man’s offered hand and shook it gladly.  The pictures really didn’t do him justice; he was the spitting image of Sherlock, just with the fiery hair and the… lack of height.  Even the face he made when he was closely scrutinizing another person was the same.

      “So you’re the one responsible for Arthur’s scarper around London.”

      “I also tap dance.”

      “You’ll fit right in here, then.”

      “Good to know.”

Martin had far more to ask the Detective Inspector, but the man was suddenly absent, taken by both arms by Sherlock and John, who marched him into the house, leaving Martin alone with Arthur and Mycroft.

      “Mycroft… nice to see you.  Glad you could come.  And that you showed uncharacteristic restraint with regards to the party.”

      “I exist only to serve, dear cousin.  And how are you doing?  Please do not dissemble with pointless small talk when you know exactly to what I am referring.”

Martin bristled sharply at the curt tone but noticed the tension in Mycroft’s body and the fact that his cousin’s eyes were not looking at him, but rather at the house.

      “Good, actually.  Holding on.  I found someone to talk to on that list of John’s and that’s helping.  Arthur’s coming too sometimes, which helps even more.”

Martin gave Arthur’s head a kiss and nudged it off his shoulder.

      “Oh hi, Mycroft.  I’m just a little, cry-y since this is the very first time that everyone is in one place.  Oh, I have to get a picture of this!  I’ll get my good camera!”

Arthur’s departure was cut short as both Martin’s hand and the handle of Mycroft’s umbrella prevented his escape.

      “Let’s wait until later shall we, Arthur.  When we have a little quiet and can establish a pose appropriate for our first family photograph.”

Mycroft shared a look with Martin, silently acknowledging his catch that all was not well within their little group.

      “That’s a brilliant idea!  I have my phone with me, though, so I can take little snaps for now and we can have a real photo later.   So, let’s get started.  One of you two… come on, smile…”

Mycroft smiled the smile he had perfected through many years of having to appear sincere when he was either bored, not paying attention or wishing the other individual tossed naked into a muck heap.  He was bearing too much worry to dredge up anything more genuine at the moment.  It was wrong, absolutely wrong, for his Gregory to be subject to whatever tongue-lashing he was receiving and as soon as he could extract himself from Arthur and Martin, it would come to an end.  Sherlock and John could rage at him all they liked, but the Detective Inspector was decidedly off limits.

      “Oh, that’s a good one.  Come on now and have some cake!  There’s lots.  It’s actually three cakes made into one cake, but you can’t tell because they used lots of icing, almost like they were laying down that rather smelly black stuff they use for roads, and it all looks like one cake!  But it’s not smelly or black, so don’t worry about that, though a black cake would be brilliant!  So, follow me… there’s beer and juice, though I think I’m the only one having juice, which is ok since I really like juice and now I’ll have lots.”

      “Perhaps in a moment, Arthur.  I think it would behoove me to pay my respects to my brother and his dear doctor.”

      “Oh, well, you’ll have to wait for that.  They’re having a talk with Greg.  I’m not completely sure what it’s about, but Doctor Watson said something like they had to beat some sense into his head, which is rather amusing since Doctor Watson would never hurt _anyone_.  I’m sure they’re just giving him a big hello and they’ll be out soon.  So let’s go… and look!  They’ve started dancing!  And I already gave Skip lessons on how to dance so we can join in.  And I know you’re a wonderful dancer, Mycroft since I’ve seen you with Greg.  This is the best party ever!”

Arthur grabbed both Mycroft and Martin by the hand and raced toward the refreshments table.  While he cut an oversize piece for Martin and frowned at Mycroft’s refusal, the older Holmes turned his attention away from his own situation and to the two boys in front of him.  A second glance was not necessary to see they were happy.  And not in the casual, discardable use of the term.  They were two individuals who were now more than they ever were before because they had each other.  Much like Sherlock and John.  And… no, it was not appropriate to make any assumptions beyond that.  But it was a small worry off of his mind.  Not that he disbelieved Arthur’s enthusiastic reassurances that his and Martin’s love remained strong, one should always, whenever possible, make assessments based on firsthand evidence.  That was two couples he had personally verified for compatibility and endurance.  Now… there remained only one.

      “And who is this?  Arthur, if this is a solicitor, you had best have you luggage packed for deportation.”

      “Mum!  No… this isn’t a solicitor.  Well, I don’t think so because that would rather be redundant since Mycroft is in charge of… well… everything, so why would he have to worry about the courts and laws and stuff like that.  Unless Greg told him to, of course, because Greg is very adamant about people following the law, which goes along with him being a policeman, so…”

      “Arthur!  Dear sweet idiot of a boy, would you please introduce me to the man in the expensive suit so I may address him by name when I ask if he is serving us with papers?”

It was rare that Martin’s smile erupted fully and Mycroft was tempted to affect a little deception to draw an even larger smile out of him, but decided to take the honorable route.

      “Mrs. Knapp-Shappey, I presume?  Mycroft Homes, Martin’s cousin.”

Mycroft had to admire the skepticism with which Arthur’s mother viewed his hand when he extended it.

      “Well, it is good to put a face to the name that my bumble-headed son screeches, hums, sings or chants a hundred times a day.”

      “That’s silly, Mum.  I don’t know how to chant.  Oh!  And you also know Mycroft as Mr. Farmer, the man who made sure GERTI kept flying when Skip was getting himself sorted out.  So… well, be nice.”

Carolyn shuffled her gaze between the tall man with the umbrella and her slightly-swaying son and decided this was a battle she would not choose to uptake.

      “I suppose I should thank you for your business, Mr. Holmes, but since it was earned because of Martin’s stupidity, I shall not.  I assume you are part of the Boys Bedtime Party that Arthur his hosting?”

      “Mum, I told you I have not officially decided on a name.”

      “Actually, I have secured lodging nearby for myself and Gregory.”

      “Mycroft, there isn’t any suitable hotel anywhere in the area.  What did you do?”

      “Really, Martin… must you affect such a suspicious tone?  I simply rented a property for several days, nothing more.”

Six months was not inappropriately termed ‘several days.’  And it would conveniently serve as accommodations for himself or Sherlock when they next chose to visit.

      “No!  No you can’t!  Mycroft… you have to stay here with us.  Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Watson are staying here with me and Skip and Mum’s going to stay with Herc so we have the whole house to ourselves to have a big sleepover and have breakfast every day in our pajamas and stay up late to watch films and play games and you can’t do that with us as easily if you’re staying somewhere else.  And you and Greg will be alone, which isn’t a bad thing really, but not when there’s so much fun to be had and this is the very first time we can all have fun together so please please please please please….. you’ve got to stay with us.  Anyway, I’ve already made up your room.”

Mycroft stabbed the point of his umbrella into the ground a few times and avoided the knowing grins on Martin and Carolyn’s faces.  No one, _no one_ , denied Arthur when he said please five times.

      “Of course, Arthur.  We shall be happy to accept your very kind offer.  Why don’t you show me inside and I can have the luggage placed in our rooms?”

      “Room.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “Room.  There’s only the one.  I mean… you and Greg are _together_ right?  Besides there’s only one extra room anyway.”

How Arthur could turn winking into a full-body exercise was positively baffling.

      “How terribly efficient of you.”

Gregory was going to end his life with a combination of sharp objects and foul language.

      “Brilliant!  Come on, then and I’ll get you settled.  Skip, finish your cake because when I come back we’re going to be dancing.  In fact, eat another piece so we can dance all night and you won’t get woozy.  Be back soon.”

Carolyn rolled her eyes at the boy’s goodbye kiss and stalked off muttering something about the sad fate of Britain.  Mycroft was yanked again to follow Arthur into the house and knew before they even opened the door from the volume of the voices inside that the situation was dire.  The visual assessment was even worse with his Gregory nearly pressed against a wall, yelling back at the two figures who were confronting him and yelling even louder.

      “Mycroft?  What’s going on?”

      “Stay here, Arthur.  Just for a moment.”

Mycroft swallowed down his anger and strode forward pushing Sherlock aside to stand next to Lestrade.

      “This will cease!”

      “Don’t you dare get involved in this Mycroft!  Someone has to pull this idiot’s head out of his ass and I’m the only one trained to do it safely!”

      “John is correct.  Your presence is unwelcome in this conversation, as it is anywhere civilized persons aggregate.”

      “The combined opinion of the both of you has been noted and summarily dismissed.  Beyond your ridiculous hysterics towards Gregory, you are upsetting Arthur.”

      “Mycroft, it’s ok… I can handle this.”

      “Of that, I have absolutely no doubt, Gregory, however, there is no reason for you to _have_ to handle it since the situation should never have arisen.  Sherlock, John… you will table this discussion until you can approach it in a more civilized fashion.  There is much you do not understand and that is diminishing your capacity for a proper debate.  Come along, my… come along, Detective Inspector.  Let us get situated before returning to the party.  We shall be joining everyone here for the duration of our stay so there will be ample time for all parties to come to an understanding.”

Mycroft simply nodded his acknowledgement of Lestrade’s puzzled look and then motioned a very distressed Arthur over to the rest of the group.

      “There, that’s been sorted.  Just a little misunderstanding that shall not arise again.  Will you show us to our accommodations?”

It took every ounce of Mycroft’s self-control not to place his arm around Lestrade and lead him away from the eyes that were still glaring at him, though not adding any further verbal abuse to the condemnation.  Arthur looked back and forth between the men and chose to keep his comments to himself this one single time, restricting his actions to walking quickly up the stairs and checking to see that Mycroft and Lestrade were following.

      “Well, here’s your room.  See?  You can tell because it’s got your name on it.”

And it did.  ‘Mycroft and Greg’ was spelled out in large letters made of what appeared to be glitter suspended in glue.  If that was not sufficient identification, there were pictures of umbrellas and handcuffs taped next to their names.

      “Well, here you go.  Greg… are you ok?  You look really angry and if there’s anything I can do to make you less angry you just have to ask and I’ll do it.  And believe me, I have a LOT of ideas if you don’t have any of your own and they work too!  When Skip gets angry or sad or a bit daft in the head I can almost always find a way to make him happy again!”

Mycroft watched Lestrade breathe through his thinking and slap a sadly insincere smile on his face.

      “I’m fine, lad, thanks for asking.  Just a bit of a disagreement with the boys.  Lots of hot air and not a lot else.  I tell you what, though… give me a few minutes to chat with Mycroft and we’ll meet you outside.  Looked like things were just starting to get interesting.”

      “Sure!  And they are… the dancing’s gotten started and Mycroft made sure we have a great system to play my songs for everyone to hear and dance to.  So yeah… I’ll go and check on Skip and we’ll see you both dancing.  Ok… so, bye.”

Arthur made a hasty getaway and when his foot hit the bottom of the stairs, Mycroft opened the door to the guest room and pulled Lestrade in after him.

      “Are you alright, my dear?  And do not attempt to demur or diminish the severity of your upset for it is plainly written on your face.”

      “Then why ask?”

      “Because I care.  And you know that.”

Mycroft simply stood and waited as Lestrade’s body relaxed and his eyes finally softened.

      “It’s pretty much like I predicted.  They’re furious with me for being stupid and for not saying anything to them earlier.  Can’t blame them.  _Won’t_ blame them.  I’d feel the same way in their shoes.”

      “But you would not be so aggressive in your discourse.  I am sorry, Gregory.  Truly sorry.  And, as you can see, we are expected to spend the remainder of our time here.  However, after what he witnessed, I am sure that Arthur would have no objection to alternative arrangements.”

      “No… it’s fine.  Can’t disappoint him, he made a sign after all!”

      “And a majestic one at that.”

      “For one room.”

      “Ah, yes.  There is that.”

      “Your doing?”

      “Gregory!  I would never!”

      “Yeah, you would.”

      “I will award some degree of accuracy to your statement.”

      “Hah!  I love it when you dance around the truth like kids around a maypole.”

      “I am speaking the entire truth.  This is Arthur’s arrangement.  I had planned another situation for us, but he had his own ideas on the matter.”

      “Well, I get the left side.”

      “Pardon?”

      “Of the bed.  I sleep on the left.”

      “You cannot be serious.”

      “I can’t?  What… were you planning on taking the floor?”

      “Well… not necessarily.”

      “You thought _I’d_ take the floor?”

      “I have honestly not had the time to calculate the possibilities.”

      “Well, calculate away, but factor in that I sleep on the left.”

      “I… I shall do that.”

      “Good.  Now, I guess I’m good to go join the masses.  At least long enough to grab a beer or five.  Coming?”

      “Of course.  Lead the way.”

      “Good.  And Mycroft… thank you.”

      “Anytime, my dear.”

__________

John could not miss the protectiveness in Mycroft’s body language when the two men returned outside and it both confused and infuriated him.  What in the hell was Greg thinking?  What was going on?  And, more to the point, how could he have been such a complete bastard to his friend?

      “This is unacceptable, John.  Absolutely and infuriatingly unacceptable.”

      “Yeah, yeah it is.  But Mycroft was right, we really didn’t give Greg a chance to explain.”

      “Explanations are unnecessary.  He came here with _Mycroft_.  That is already a violation of all tenets of common sense.  And common decency.”

      “Explanations _are_ necessary and we were wrong not to give him his say.  Dammit… come on, then.  Let’s go.”

      “Go?  Where?”

      “To apologize.”

      “I refuse.”

      “Fine.  Then stand here all alone while I go fall on my sword.”

      “I shall enjoy the show.”

      “You do that.”

John could not miss that being sighted by a very irritated Mycroft Holmes was not a fate for the faint of heart.  He now knew how a mouse felt when it locked eyes with a hawk.  What Sherlock could not miss that his brother was unaware of the strength of the signals he was projecting for anyone sufficiently skilled to read them.  Which meant _him_.  He had been correct… Mycroft _could_ offer Lestrade affection, much to his continued disbelief, because every fiber of his brother’s being was poised and ready to take John to shreds if he so much as looked at Lestrade the wrong way.  But… he still had nothing else to offer.  Nothing else on which to build a relationship and it was laughable that he was in a better position to judge this than was Mycroft.  But John was quite right in that there existed a lack of understanding as to the specifics of the current circumstances and that had to be rectified at the first opportunity.

Sherlock watched as John spoke a few words to Lestrade, then gave him a hearty slap on the arm, which seemed to be the seal of some form of agreement for Mycroft immediately relaxed and Lestrade’s smirk rose up to match John’s own.  Apparently, if he wanted to be in proximity to the participants to make the necessary observations, he would have to also fall on his sword.  Looking around and sighting his target, Sherlock strode to a large table strewn with bottles and put three into his pockets, pausing a moment before adding a fourth and turning to walk towards John and the rest.

      “Here.  John has apparently already made the appropriate verbal gestures, so there is no need for me to elaborate further.”

Sherlock passed out the remaining bottles, including one to a very startled Mycroft and knew from John’s smile that he had done the right thing.  Learning these petty social rituals was far easier than he had thought.  As long as he had John.

      “No you don’t, lad.  And I told John that we’d have a sit down tomorrow, but tonight’s all about having a good time.  Why don’t you take the good doctor here and go dancing?”

      “Why don’t you…”

      “Sherlock…”

      “I had nothing vile in mind, John.  Though it would not be unwarranted after such a horrifying suggestion.”

      “Guys!  Why are you all just standing here?  There’s dancing!”

Sherlock wondered if he bent his neck sufficiently to ask, would Mycroft agree to a request to outlaw all forms of dancing.   In perpetuity.

      “Are you sure, Arthur?  Seems to me you’ve danced up everyone’s portion for the night.”

      “That’s not possible, Greg.  Dancing is like grass.  It’s infinite.  There’s always more, no matter what.  Unless you’re in the desert.  Or the ocean.  Oh… that doesn’t work very well, does it?”

      “Works perfectly and I bet that if you keep the alcohol flowing you’ll be able to drag a couple of us oldsters onto the dance floor.”

      “Brilliant!  Well, drink up then because we have lots.  Skip was worried about carrying it all in his van and having a spark light him up like a big fireball.  Which would have been very pretty, but not at all a good thing.  So drink whatever you want and then come dancing.  It’s a party after all!”

And Arthur even danced his way back to a Martin who was quickly trying to down his own measure of alcohol before being pulled back into the sea of gyrating bodies.

      “John… do not in any way begin to think that I shall be party to any form of dancing.”

      “Gregory, you should also be very aware that this is one of the infinitesimally-small number of times I agree wholeheartedly with my brother.”

      “I take that as a challenge and Lestrade’s never back down from a challenge.”

      “Neither do Watsons.”

      “Sherlock… I believe the game is, as they say, on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been putting up a number of short pieces on tumblr for those who are interested. Some Mystrade, some Johnlock, some Arthur/Martin... might be G-rated or NSFW and one's pretty darn dark.
> 
> http://eventhorizon451.tumblr.com/
> 
> Stop on by if you want to check them out...


	32. Everyone Loves a Good Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I sound like a broken record, but thanks to everyone leaving comments and kudos! I really appreciate them and they do keep me on my toes!

      “I must admit, they _do_ seem to know what they are doing.”

      “I would not expect John to participate actively in an activity in which he did not feel he had some facility.”

      “Nor I for Gregory.  I despair, however, to reflect on where they have been practicing their craft.”

Sherlock had some experience in clubs and shuddered to think about his John setting foot in any one of them.

      “I am rather surprised that Lestrade has such a range of flexibility and endurance.”

      “I’m afraid his endurance is nearly depleted.  Look more closely, Sherlock.”

      “Ah… you are correct.”

      “And you failed to notice this little fact when you were shrieking at him like a hemorrhoidal chimpanzee?

      “I was under the impression we were tabling this discussion.”

      “Let us not maintain the subterfuge of civility when we are alone, Sherlock.  You will _not_ harass Gregory any further. You will give him no cause for distress.  You will continue to provide the physical presence and conversation that he, surprisingly given that it is you, values greatly and do nothing, nothing at all to add to his woes.  He is both physically and mentally exhausted and it is my hope that this small respite will be beneficial to his welfare.  You will not do _anything_ to compromise that goal, do I make myself clear?”

      “I have no desire to negatively impact Lestrade’s health.”

      “Then we have an understanding.”

      “On that point only.  And I shall take that understanding very seriously, which means anything _you_ do to compromise your so-called goal will not go unchallenged.”

      “That you care is touching.”

      “That _you_ care is terrifying.”

      “Gregory does not share your view.”

      “Lestrade does not know you.”

      “Neither do you, Sherlock.  Of the two of you, Gregory… no, this is not a matter for discussion.”

      “Apparently it _is_ if it stops you short in the middle of one of your monotonous diatribes.”

Mycroft faced his brother and decided that some truth was finally in order.

      “As you wish.  You have no idea who I am as a person, Sherlock.  You never have.  What I am to you is a self-woven web of unfounded judgments and willfully-distorted perceptions.  You gleefully boast of your observational skills, yet have failed on all levels to accurately evaluate any information that touches upon myself or our own sickly and deformed relationship.  You craft an identity for me, brother dear, which suits your needs but is in no way a reflection of my true person.  And to perhaps heap onto you an additional portion of information on which to reflect, this puts you, Sherlock, squarely in the _majority_ of the human population.  Where Gregory differs is that he is willing to shift his views as new evidence is presented.  He does not remain chained and locked in a mindset that does not hold the proverbial water.  You could see who I am Sherlock, if you did not deliberately blind yourself.  Gregory cannot, but he still sensed that something lay beneath the artifices of these trappings and affects and encouraged me… _allowed_ me… to show them.  Whether he will continue to do so in the future is unclear, but he _has_ done so, Sherlock.  Something you have never and _will_ never find it within yourself to do.  Now, I must tend to dear Gregory for he seems to be within moments of collapsing from fatigue.  I suggest you remember my admonition and treat him well while we are here.”

Sherlock watched as his brother strode over to the Detective Inspector and plucked him by the collar out of the crowd of other dancers, earning a large laugh from John.  He continued to watch as Mycroft and Lestrade exchanged a few quiet words and their own quieter bit of laughter.  There was no reason to expend any significant amount of energy considering his brother’s words, for Mycroft had long ago lost the ability to discern the truth among the lies, but he could honor, at least, his request to refrain from stressing the Detective Inspector.  The man did appear decidedly drained.

      “Mr. Sherlock!  Come on.  Seriously come on.  You’ve got to come… on”

Arthur tugged Sherlock until he started moving and followed him to the horde of dancers, shoving the detective firmly into John’s surprised embrace.

      “Ok.  Now I have to go and get Greg and Mycroft out here.  I’m going to play a slow song!”

And fast as a rabbit, Arthur was corralling a very amused Greg and highly reluctant Mycroft into the dance area, then off to his music system, where he searched his playlist to find a good song for slow-dancing before racing back to Martin to grab him up and hold him tightly.  Sherlock and Mycroft were both attempting to extricate themselves and both were being met with the same steel-edged yet affectionate resistance of their dance partners, who happily started dancing when the music began.

__________

      “Come on, Sherlock, stop being such a stuffy bastard.”

      “I do not enjoy dancing.  I see no point in the activity.”

      “There doesn’t have to be a point for everything, you know.  But, dancing is a nice way to share a little something with your partner out in public and no one points and stares.  Well, usually… they are going to start pointing and staring if you don’t just loosen up and follow my lead!”

      “Why do you get to lead?”

      “Because I called it.  Now, just relax… whoops!”

      “I’m sorry, John, but I do not recognize the validity of ‘calling it.’  You may lean against me, if you wish and I will lead.”

      “Oh… hey, you’re not bad at this.  Where did you learn to dance?”

      “I picked it up somewhere.”

      “No… a person just doesn’t pick up dancing.  Sherlock Holmes… you got lessons as a kid didn’t you.  Oh yeah, that’s it.  I can totally see you in a cute little outfit…”

      “Do not further traumatize me with memories of my youth.”

      “Hah!  Come on, Sherlock.  You know I have to hear this story.”

      “There is little to tell.  Apparently, a Holmes _must_ be able to dance.”

      “How many instructors did you go through?”

      “I resent the implication.”

      “How many?”

      “Six.  Eventually, Mycroft had to step in and complete the instruction.  Not something I prefer to reflect upon when neither a hot shower nor lye soap is readily available.”

      “Well, I’ll have to thank him anyway.  You dance divinely.”

      “Is that sarcasm?”

      “No, Sherlock it isn’t.  I could dance with you all night.”

      “Oh… well, thank you.  And you are quite adequate, as well.”

      “I may not survive the compliment.”

__________

      “You did it, Arthur.  You threw the best party Fitton has ever seen.  And I think half the town is here to verify it.”

      “You really think so?  Brilliant!  And it’s all for you, Skip.  I’d throw a party every year to show people just how happy I am that I found you and…. well, _found_ you.”

      “I think this one will do for a long time.  But, that’s not to say we can’t have little parties of our own now and then.”

      “With cake and balloons?”

      “And music and dancing.”

      “This is why I love you so much, Skip.  You like doing fun things just as much as I do.”

      “Not before I met you, love.  Now, every day is something fun to do.”

      “I think that deserves a little kiss.”

      “I think it does.”

      “Maybe… two?”

      “Take ten, they’re free.”

      “Hurrah!  I’ll start as soon as the party is over because sometimes our kisses take a long time and if I get _ten_ of them… this could take all night.

      “I’ll start limbering up my lips.”

__________

      “You’re amazing at this, you know.”

      “Years of practice at many a sterile and soul-crushing official function.”

      “Well it paid off, Mycroft, you’re brilliant on your feet.  Tell me the truth, is there anything you don’t do well?”

      “I am quite sure there is, I simply haven’t found it yet.”

      “And let me guess… you thought you were wrong once, but you were mistaken.”

      “Oh very good… I shall have to remember that.”

      “And if you forget, I’ll be there to remind you.”

Something about the words and the tone shot directly into Mycroft’s chest, making him draw back a little and gaze at the man in his arms.

      “Will you, my dear?  Be there?”

Lestrade was transfixed by the emotion shining in Mycroft’s eyes and answered before his brain actually had a say in the matter.

      “Yes.”

And that one word came closer to shattering Mycroft’s control than anything he had ever experienced.  He quickly drew Lestrade’s head to his shoulder and held the man gently until he was convinced he could speak without making himself look the fool.

      “And I for you, my dear.”

      “Mycroft…”

      “In time, Gregory… only not now.  Patience?”

The only reply Mycroft received was a single hand running across his back, but it was more than enough.

__________

 As the last person stumbled off of Carolyn’s lawn, Martin surveyed the scene and tried desperately not think about what it was going to take to clean things up tomorrow.  At least he could count on Arthur and John for a hand.  And maybe Mycroft’s… whatever… Greg.  He seemed like a surprisingly normal chap, which made Martin think suddenly of every description he’d ever heard of every serial killer in existence.

      “Martin!  Good party, lad.”

It was completely appropriate to jump and squeak like a panicked mouse when a serial killer sneaks up on you.

      “Oh!  Greg… hello.  Sorry, just… that is to say… you know how it is…”

      “Startled you a little.”

      “Just a very little.  And yes… it was a good party.  Arthur did an amazing job of putting this together.”

      “That he did and Arthur seems the kind of lad that does an amazing job with whatever he puts his mind to.”

      “He does.  And thank you… not everyone sees that about him.”

      “That’s because most people can’t see the good things in life even if you put up a big sign with an arrow that says ‘Look here you stupid bastard.’ “

      “You won’t get an argument from me on that since I had to be hit over the head with that sign before I opened my eyes.  Do you… I mean how much do you know about…”

      “You?  Some.  Enough, really.  Mycroft’s given me some of the details.”

      “Ah.”

      “And I like what I heard, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

      “Oh… not that I was worried or anything, but that’s nice of you to say.”

      “And here’s something you can have over the King of the Ravens over there… it was bollocks getting him clean.  He didn’t want to make the effort, never saw the point.  Talk about someone who can’t see the good things… He lost a sad portion of his life because he never had it in him to just try and get some help or take the help he was offered.  Honestly, Martin, you should be very, very proud of yourself for doing what you did.”

      “I’m… It wasn’t that much… I mean…”

      “You just remember what I said, ok?  And don’t worry about all of this carnage; I’ll give you a hand tomorrow.  Cleaned up after many a bash myself in the bad old days.”

      “Thank you!  Really, that’s very kind.”

Martin looked at the man standing next to him and decided there was no time like the present.

      “Greg… can I ask you something?  You and Mycroft… what exactly… I’ve tried to get an idea of things from Arthur, but he’s… well he’s Arthur and I can’t understand any of it.”

      “Tell you the truth, Martin, neither can I.  I guess, for now, you can say we’re friends and that’s about it.”

      “Mycroft wouldn’t bring a _friend_ to a celebration like this.  To a royal ball, maybe, but not something like this.  Not to something that might actually mean something to him.”

      “Maybe I just caught a lift.  Arthur’s become a mate of mine too, you know.”

      “I do, actually.  He’s been singing your praises since he met you.  But Mycroft doesn’t give lifts or ask a chum to come along to what amounts to a family party.  And he doesn’t dance with that person like there’s no place on earth he’d rather be.  Look, I don’t… I don’t like to be forward but… what are your intentions towards my cousin?”

Lestrade’s shock at the question was trumped only by his admiration that Martin actually stood up to him and asked.  Too bad his answer wasn’t going to satisfy.

      “My intentions?  That’s really something you should ask Mycroft because my intentions… let’s just say that my intentions aren’t necessarily important because they don’t change anything.”

      “I… Arthur makes more sense than that!”

      “Welcome to my life!  If I had my way… if I had my way Mycroft Holmes wouldn’t be alone anymore, ok?  He’d _never_ be alone again.  But that’s not my call and it may not ever be, so what I said before was true.  We’re just friends.  Maybe that’ll change, maybe it won’t.  Again… it’s not my call.”

      “That’s um… that’s good.  I mean it’s good to know you’re interested in him.  Because he’s not a bad person, really… a little cold at times, but not bad.  And I’ve been watching; he’s different when he’s with you. The stick that seems to permanently reside up his arse slips a little and he manages to relax a bit.  So, yeah… good.  Well, not that good since… what is it that’s exactly going on?  I’m no expert on relationships, I mean I’m _really_ not an expert, but it seems… it’s not really fair for you, is it?  Whatever _it_ is, that is…”

      “This is one of those times that ‘fair’ doesn’t seem to matter.  It’s alright though, lad.  Whatever will happen will happen and I think that we can remain on good terms even if… well, even if things don’t go the way I’d like them to.”

      “Well, that’s something, I guess.  I just don’t want him to get hurt.  No one thinks that Mycroft _can_ be hurt, but that’s not true.  And it would be nice if he would actually get a chance to be happy for once.  Sherlock squandered every chance he ever had to be happy, except this one with John, but Mycroft… I don’t think he ever had a lot of chances for happiness.  So I’ll keep the old fingers crossed for you to go along with Arthur’s nearly daily prayer ritual over the photos he has of you two on his wall.  And you’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do to help?  It’s been a long while since I spent a lot of time with Mycroft, but I know things about him and I don’t mind sharing.  I’d like to see this work, Greg.  You seem like you’d be good for him.”

      “I may take you up on that last bit.  Anything to get a better idea about the Great Man.  And I appreciate this chat, Martin.  It’s been good.  Nice to know I’ve got someone in my corner.”

      “I… I don’t think I’ve actually been in anyone’s corner before.”

      Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle with you.”

__________

Lestrade left Martin to find Arthur and drag him off to bed, then heaved himself up the stairs to find his own bed.  That was a good party.  At least by his old man standards.  No one shagging in the bushes, but it was fuck o’clock in the morning and they’d had to kick people out to get things to wind down.  And he’d danced, for christ’s sake!  He hadn’t danced in years and he hadn’t made a complete fool of himself, either, if the fair amount of approving looks he’d gotten were any indication.  Of course, they all thought he was with John until the slow dance started… oh god, the slow dance… he did not have the energy right now to think about that.  Any of that.  How it felt, how it sounded, what it meant… Wonderful, hopeful and who the hell knew…  He hadn’t lied to Martin; none of this was in his hands and Martin was right, it wasn’t fair.  But, he’d promised patience and… there was _something_.  There had to be.  There _had_ to be.

      “Ah, there you are, my dear.  I was wondering if I was to be required to authorize a search for your whereabouts.”

Mycroft was propped up in the bed, right side Lestrade noticed, with a book in his hand.  And there was absolutely no surprise that he was wearing silk pajamas.

      “Just talking to Martin.  He’s a good lad, I like him.  Nice match for Arthur.  They complement each other well.”

      “They do, don’t they.  The scales are balanced quite equitably in their relationship.  Now, you need to take some rest, Gregory.  I am genuinely surprised that you are able to remain vertical at this point.”

So was Lestrade.  So he would blame dizzying fatigue on the fact that he grabbed the shirt and shorts he’d brought to sleep in and changed into them, standing at the foot of the bed.  And he would not remark on the sound Mycroft made after getting a quick, but very good look at his bum.

      “I’m sort of out of it, I’ll give you that.  But it’s not often I get to cut loose a little and, dead on my feet or not, I was going to enjoy it.”

      “And did you?”

      “Fantastic time.  Really, that was a lot of fun.”

      “It did appear as if you were enjoying yourself and I must admit that I was quite impressed with your dancing skills.”

      “Oh yeah, which ones?”

Lestrade dropped down on the bed and put his hands behind his head, staring up at his roommate.

      “You _are_ a minx aren’t you, my dear.”

      “Everyone needs a hobby.”

      “Yes, well… are you prepared to retire?  I must admit to simply whiling away the time until you returned.”

      “You mean you waited up for me.  Thanks, love.  Grab the light?”

Mycroft sounded so cute when he choked.

      “Of… of course.  It would be my pleasure.”

Not as much of a pleasure as Lestrade was having seeing Mycroft’s long body, clad in deep green silk, unfold from the bed like a large cat to reach the bedside lamp.  And return to lay down just a little closer to Lestrade than when he rose.

      “Goodnight, my dear.  I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, but I anticipate that it will be most interesting.”

      “Hah!  That’s a bet I won’t take.  Once Martin and I return the yard to normal, I’m sure Arthur will have an entire list of things he wants to do, half of which will probably muck up the yard yet again.”

      “Gregory, leave the tidying to the others.  You cannot push yourself too hard, you are here to rest, as well as have your fun.”

      “Mycroft, I can pick up bottles and cups…”

      “You _can_ , but so can the others.  I shall take your share of the burden if that makes you more agreeable to simply resting yourself.”

      “You?  Clean up after a party?”

      “That fact alone should convince you of the seriousness of my concern.”

If that didn’t do it, the long fingers suddenly laying across his and the gentle squeeze they gave his hand certainly did.

      “Alright, I’ll take it easy tomorrow.”

      “That is all I ask.  Now, try and get some rest.  I would not be at all shocked if, despite the time, Arthur will be awake and in the kitchen at an unconscionable hour.”

      “You’re probably right.  ‘Night, Mycroft.  Sleep well.”

      “You too, Gregory.  I shall see you in the morning.”

And the unspoken agreement was that neither would mention they had yet to unclasp their hands.

__________

Nor would they mention the fact that they woke with Mycroft curled around Lestrade, the older man held fast in a tangle of arms and legs as if Mycroft was terrified that he’d be stolen away.  And _especially_ would not be mentioned the fact that both were experiencing fine examples of normal morning biology.

      “If I’m not mistaken, you are awake, my dear.”

      “And wouldn’t you have felt silly if I wasn’t, talking to yourself like that.”

      “Not at all, sometimes speaking to one’s self is the only way to ensure intelligent conversation.”

      “I see you’re philosophical in the morning.”

      “Among other things.”

      “Now who’s the minx?”

      “I believe we make a matched set.”

      “That’s old news.  Tell me something new.”

      “Your hair smells of aged oak and bay leaf.”

      “Will you marry me?”

      “Not today, but I shall gladly tell you something new every morning while we are here.”

      “I can live with that.  Now…”

      “GREG!  MYCROFT!  I’m not going to open the door just in case you… well you know, just in case, but I’ve almost got breakfast ready so come down soon.  Mr. Sherlock wanted Toblerone pancakes and they’re best eaten when the candy’s still gooey.  Bye!”

      “You were saying, my dear?”

      “I’ve completely forgotten.”

      “I’m sure it’s for the best.  Now, shall we?”

Lestrade wriggled so that he spun around to look Mycroft in the face.

      “Would you be upset if I said I’d rather not.”

      “I would be honored.  And relived that I am not alone in that feeling.”

      “But.”

      “Unfortunately.”

Lestrade simply nodded and pushed back slightly, feeling Mycroft’s arms release so he could get out of the bed.

      “Well, at least I get to watch you grub around clearing party leftovers.”

      “Oh dear, I do believe my back has become disagreeable.”

      “Prat.  Come on before Arthur comes back and jollies us on.”

      “And we shall have an abundance of _jolly_ today, I am sure, without an extra helping.”

__________

Mycroft won the right to use the shower first by dint of grabbing Lestrade’s shirt as he tried to bolt for the door and tossing him back onto the bed, sliding out while the man got untangled from the blanket that had mysteriously landed on his head.  This put him first down for breakfast and he was glad for it as it allowed him to press another stern look towards his brother and John.

      “Good god I think I’ve been struck dead.  Don’t you have to have a license for that glare, Mycroft?”

      “Ignore him, John.  He has yet to have tea and cannot affect his normal control over his rapacious personality.”

      “Mycroft!  Good morning!  And it _is_ a good morning; in fact it’s a great morning!  I’ll get you some tea.  It’s just like you like it, good and strong.”

      “Thank you, Arthur… oh this _is_ nice and strong isn’t it.  The milk… didn’t really change it at all.  How utterly… robust.  And where is cousin Martin this fine morning?”

      “He ran out to get some juice.  Can’t have breakfast without juice and though we bought a LOT of juice for the party, people started mixing it with vodka and now we don’t have any.  But at least their breath won’t smell of alcohol, it’ll only smell of juice and that’s quite nice, really.  Though you know…”

Martin’s arrival cut short Arthur’s speech since Arthur had to give him a kiss and do a small Skip-got-pineapple-Brilliant! dance.

      “Morning, Mycroft.  Sleep well?”

      “Very well, actually.  Quite comfortable.”

      “Yeah, he looked like he would be.”

Arthur was quick with the towel when Sherlock and John spit tea across the breakfast table.

      “Mycroft, just where did Greg sleep last night?”

      “In the guest bedroom.”

      “You’re going to make this difficult, aren’t you?”

      “That is not my intention, John.  I believed I responded with complete accuracy.”

      “What’s the problem?  Greg slept in Mycroft’s room.  Or Mycroft slept in Greg’s room.  You could say it either way, though I did put Greg’s name first on the sign because _G_ comes before _M_ in the alphabet.”

      “Mycroft… so help me…”

      “John, your agitation is unfounded.  There was only one further room in the house available for guests and neither of us objected to sharing.  And I do believe a ‘shame on you’ is forthcoming if you do not believe two adults can share a bed without the need for carnal activities.”

      “Two adults, yes… but this is you and Greg!”

      “You _must_ be perturbed, your rebukes are lacking their usual level of practical wit.”

      “Sherlock… would you please help me out here.”

Sherlock took in his brother’s restrained annoyance, Arthur’s worry and Martin’s confusion and made a very uncharacteristic decision for the greater good.  

      “Lestrade is not a child, John.  And my brother, loathsome he may be, would not compromise him in a house filled with people who would be willing to take action to salvage Lestrade’s tarnished honor.  It is not an issue worth bothering yourself over.”

John gaped at his partner, who took up both their cups of tea to replace what Arthur was currently wiping up.

      “Oh hey, one of those for me?”

      “I am not your servant, Lestrade.  Ask Arthur.”

      “Oh!  Greg!  I’ll make you some tea…”

      “Sherlock was kidding, Arthur.  I can fend for myself.   In fact, is there anything I can help _you_ with for feeding this lot?”

      “Really?  Brilliant!  Let’s see, I have the pancake batter ready, so you could cut up the Toblerones.  And get the chocolate syrup warm.  Oh!  And Skip’s supposed to have fruit because he needs the fiber…”

      “Hey!”

      “…so if you could do a little something for him that would be a BIG help because once the pancakes are cooking, I can’t really do anything else or get distracted or I’ll have to get a new pan.  Again.”

      “You leave it to me.  I’ll make sure you’ve got nothing to worry about.  Be your sous chef for the morning.  Now, get to work, we’ve got mouths to feed.”

Arthur’s ‘yeah!’ kicked the last of the early-morning cobwebs out of everyone’s heads and put the final nail in the coffin of the previous topic of conversation.  As irritated and worried as was John, he was not about to disrupt the truly happy scene of Arthur dancing around the kitchen, with Lestrade stubbly face grinning along with him and Mycroft was simply doing his best to ignore a smiling, stubbly Lestrade and the havoc it was wreaking on his blood pressure.  The two men shared a look to indicate that the conversation was paused but not completed, with differences to be set aside until after breakfast.

Not that Lestrade couldn’t feel the tension in the air the moment he walked into the kitchen.  He’d need to have a sit-down with Sherlock and John today, but that could wait until later.  Maybe very later.  He didn’t want to have a conversation about not _really_ being with Mycroft when he’d woken up in the man’s arms, with a hearty ‘good morning’ pressed against his arse.  But those particular thoughts were cast aside by Arthur whispering in his ear.

      “Greg… is there something wrong?  Doctor Watson was rather huffy to Mycroft this morning and that’s not like Doctor Watson at all.”

      “Nothing’s wrong, Arthur.  At least not anything important.  Few things he and I need to sort out but, it won’t take a moment and we’ll have things smoothed out by lunch.  Frankly… John just needs some fiber, too.  Flush out all the crap that’s bothering him.”

      “Oh, then you better cut up more fruit.”

      “Oh yeah, at least a swimming pool full.”

      “Fruit can swim?”

      “If they remember to bring their trunks.”


	33. What Measures the Weight of a Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I take every comment and kudo to heart and am eternally grateful for each one.

Martin sat at the breakfast table and wondered what he had done to deserve such a major change in his circumstances.  He was seated across from the most amazing the man in the world, whose smile was the only thing Martin ever needed to see to feel in control of himself again.  He had Sherlock on his left and hadn’t actually had an urge to throttle the detective, maybe because Sherlock had yet to actually be a total bastard, and John on his right with Greg sitting in the next chair over.  He might be a newcomer to their group, but was more and more becoming someone Martin felt he could honestly like and call a friend.  Next to Lestrade was Arthur, and then it was Mycroft who seemed to be having a difficult time keeping his eyes off the Detective Inspector, not that anyone who hadn’t known him since childhood would have ever been able to tell.

This was something Martin had not even had at his own home, a real family breakfast.  Everyone around the table, talking and laughing and the enormity of it was almost enough to make him panic.  Fortunately, he was sitting next to a qualified doctor who had a supernatural ability to gauge his status and periodically gave him a surreptitious pat on the leg to help him stay steady.

      “So Mycroft, you and Greg got a day of sightseeing planned?  That’ll easily take… oh, about eight minutes around here.”

      “Actually, we are waiting with great anticipation to hear what Arthur has arranged for our holiday activities.  I cannot imagine that any tour director would have a more lively list of diversions than our Arthur.”

      “Really!  Oh, and I do have a big list.  Places to go and things to see and I bought a LOT of glue and…”

      “And we shall surely take each one into consideration.  Glue you say… how avant garde.”

      “Hope you got some good outdoor things on your list, Arthur.  I could use a few lungsful of fresh air.”

      “As long as you do not overexert yourself, Gregory.”

      “Going for a nice walk isn’t overexertion.”

      “It is if it is up a mountain.”

      “Really, Mycroft… pecking at me this early in the morning?”

      “Is there a more suitable time to, as you say, peck?”

Arthur’s giggles were some salve, but John wasn’t happy about what he was seeing and hearing.  Greg and Mycroft’s back and forth was far too comfortable and… domestic.  It sounded painfully familiar actually, too much like him and Sherlock, and that was _not_ a good thing.  What in the hell was _wrong_ with Greg?  Had the man gone mad?  It might be time to throw a wrench into their gears.

      “Well, Sherlock and I would be happy to get out for a bracing walk, so you can come with us.  Nope, Sherlock… don’t give me that look.  You promised that we’d do some normal, everyday-people things while we were out here.”

Lestrade watched Sherlock scowl at his partner and caught the slight scowl that John was throwing not at Sherlock, but at _him_.  Apparently, there was something that had to happen first before any normal, everyday-people things could commence.

      “Yeah, well we’ll see.  You might need to get some things off your chest first so you’ve got room for all that extra fresh air.”

John’s scowl deepened, but it was offset by Mycroft’s slight prideful smirk.

      “Ok… you’re right.  I might at that.  When we’re finished here?”

      “Sounds fine.  Better have another banana.  They’re supposed to be good for the blood pressure.”

Sherlock wondered exactly when he became the peacemaker in his relationship and wondered further when John would simply regain his senses and take up the job again, because it was absolutely irritating and incalculably onerous.

      “Then it is settled.  You and John will air your differences so that the rest of us can be spared any further posturing.  We shall continue to enjoy Arthur’s lovely breakfast, which will leave the remainder of the house free for any altercations that might erupt.  Mycroft will pay for any damages.”

      “I certainly shall not.  If John cannot keep his fists to himself, then you can script a cheque to cover any property loss.”

      “I doubt that it would be John that would initiate a physical confrontation.  He has the practiced calm of an officer.”

      “And Gregory has the _natural_ calm of man of quality.”

      “The loser can pay for breakage and that will be Lestrade.”

      “How amusing that you believe that your dainty doctor can best someone with greater height, muscle and cunning.”

      “John is a skilled fighter!”

      “However, he obeys a rather tedious code of honor.  Lestrade is equipped to battle in the world as it truly exists.”

      “John is younger!”

      “Gregory is bolder!”

John and Lestrade looked at each other in complete bewilderment, before Lestrade motioned John to follow him out of the kitchen leaving a highly amused Arthur and completely not-paying-attention-since-this-is-old-hat Martin in their wake.

      “What the fuck was that all about?”

      “If you can figure it out, John, make sure to let me in on it.”

Lestrade dropped onto the sofa and John took a chair across from him.

      “No, Greg… I think it’s you that needs to let me in on things.  What’s going on?  I mean… you show up here with Mycroft of all people… sleep in his room... you had your head on his shoulder when you were dancing last night.  Did you even know that?  Are you having mini blackouts or something?  Do I need to get you declared unfit and held for tests?”

      “Going a little overboard, there?”

      “I wish I knew!  I’ve been there for you, Greg and seen what he did to you.  Saw what you were suffering and all of a sudden… this!”

      “There’s no _this_ , John.  Not really.”

      “What does that mean?  Not really…  either you are or you aren’t back with that bastard!”

      “It’s not that simple.”

      “Yes it is!  He shredded you with his tongue, neglected you, fucking cheated on you and you’re telling me that there is something complicated about the fact that you need to be as far away from him as possible?  You’re better than this, so why aren’t you acting like it!”

      “Dammit, John!  I know better than you what I’ve been through and… I don’t have the whole story, ok, but there is one.  A story.  Something is going on and I don’t have all the facts, but the few I do have…I’m just not ruling anything out right now.  Maybe things aren’t quite what I think they are.”

      “And that’s enough for you?  Following along like a puppy because there’s some mysterious _something_ going on?  Exactly where did your self-respect go?”

      “You’re going to throw that at me, Mr. Trail Along Behind Sherlock Holmes?  It’s not exactly like he’s been a saint to you, John and it seems like _you_ were in _his_ bed last night.  And probably doing all of the things Mycroft and I _weren’t_ doing!”

      “That’s different!  I love him!”

      “Exactly!”

John’s eyes widened and took in his friend, whose eyes had gone just as wide.

      “Greg… holy christ, you didn’t just say…”

      “No.  No, I didn’t.  I didn’t say that at all.”

      “Are you… are you sure?”

      “No… no.  And don’t put words in my mouth.  I just… I don’t know what I’m sure about anymore.  Mycroft’s been a complete tit sometimes, but then… he’s not.  And I’m not joking when I say something’s going on.  Even Arthur’s picked up on it!”

      “Arthur?”

      “If you can believe it.  He knows something and I know something, though… fuck!  I just don’t _know_ what I know!”

      “But you think it’s worth it.  All the pain, all the humiliation… you’re going to eat all of that with a great big spoon on the off chance that some weird _something_ is going make it all better?”

      “And what if I don’t?  I walk away and have nothing.  Give it a shot and if I catch another bullet in the chest, then what do I have?  Nothing.  Not much of a change is it.  But what if that’s not what happens?  What if I dodge that bullet?”

      “God, Greg… I don’t want to see you kicked again and, honestly, that’s what I think is going to happen.  Is he still with that what’s-his-name?”

      “Yeah.”

      “You’ve got to let go, mate.  Seriously and I’m saying this as both your friend and a health care provider, you can’t grab onto that rope again.  He’s getting his bread buttered on both sides and you’re getting the crumbs.  Can’t you see that?”

      “Oh, I see it perfectly.  That’s why my butter’s staying where it is, thank you very much.  We’re not doing anything, John.  Yeah, we danced.  Shared a bed and slept, just slept.  I saw him a couple of times these past few weeks and… nothing.  Had a nice time and that’s that.  And you know, I’m fine with that.  Maybe Mycroft and me settle back into being two blokes that have tea now and then – ok.  We’ve were that for a long time.  Maybe we walk the shops or catch a show once in awhile – fine.  Good to have a chum to do something with.  Maybe we go further – great.  I think... I think we could be good together if the situation was right, but I’m not holding my breath.  I’m really not.  And I can’t say I’ve forgiven him for the crap he’s put me though, I’m just… I guess I’m not completely unwilling to give him a shot to _earn_ forgiveness.”

      “And how long does this go on?  You give him a chance and then another and another and he keeps screwing you over the entire time?  While he’s got someone young and rich keeping him company and making sure his bed stays nice and warm?”

      “As opposed to someone old and poor?  Thanks a lot, John.  Want to toss ugly and stupid in there while you’re at it?”

      “No!  You know what I mean, dammit!  He’s using you.  God help me, but he’s using you and you’re just letting it happen.”

      “How?  I told you we’re not…”

      “Don’t sit there and tell me you’re not doing anything!  The only thing you seem _not_ to be doing is going at each other like dogs in heat!  And that’s just a matter of time!”

      “Oh, so now it’s _you_ saying I’m a whore.”

      “My god!  I can’t talk to you!”

      “Apparently, you can’t, so why don’t you just mind your own business and leave mine the fuck alone!”

Lestrade stormed towards the door, passing through the kitchen and sea of shocked faces watching him leave.  Mycroft quickly shook off his alarm from the shouted end of John and Lestrade’s conversation and chased after his Detective Inspector, smacking Sherlock on the head as he passed for forcing the confrontation.

      “Ow.”

      “Mr. Sherlock, what’s… that was so horrible!”

      “I suspect John and Lestrade had a less than productive conversation.”

      “Great job at understatement, Sherlock.  I’d say that was a train wreck.  Would someone please tell me what’s going on?”

      “John is angry with Lestrade for failing to recognize that Mycroft is a beastly creature and is permitting himself to be degraded by an unhealthy attachment to my brother.  John was attempting to convince him of the error of his ways.”

      “Oh, perfect.  Super.  You and John decide you’re what, the relationship police, and take the man apart because he’s not doing what you think he should do?  Have you even really talked to him?  Gotten his side?  You might see things differently if you did.”

      “Are you telling me you have?”

      “Yeah, and I think you’re completely rotten.  You and John both.”

      “It is easy to say that as you do not have the full facts of the situation.”

      “Enlighten me.”

      “I… I cannot.  Not at this point.”

      “You miserable…”

      “Skip!  No… calm down.  Mr. Sherlock… he can’t really say more.  It’s true; he’s not trying to be mean or difficult.”

      “And I assume you’re in the loop for this?”

      “No… that is to say, yes.  Mycroft needed someone to talk to since no one really wants to talk to him when everything’s normal and when they’re not it a trillion-times worse!”

      “And you saw fit not to talk to me about whatever is all this nonsense?”

      “No… that is to say, no.  Or yes.  I’m not sure which one really gives the right answer to the way you asked that question.  I didn’t hide anything, if that’s what you’re thinking, though, Skip.  It just never really came up.  You know you don’t really talk about Mycroft and Mr. Sherlock even though you’re better with them now than before, so I don’t either.”

      “Arthur, you talk about Sherlock, Mycroft, Greg and John constantly.”

      “Yeah, but only the good things.  Only the things that are funny or nice or happy… I don’t talk about other stuff unless you ask and you never ask…”

Martin tried glaring at his partner, but failed miserably because he was right.  In fact, he’d often just derailed Arthur’s train of thought to get a break from the newsfeed from London.  And that was petty.  Miserably petty.  Arthur initiated contact with his family regularly and enjoyed every bit of time he shared with them, whereas he hadn’t called or texted anyone but John and that was to ask a few questions about his… issues.  It wasn’t Arthur’s fault that it aggravated him to see his Arthur so enmeshed in the Holmes family… He had a therapy appointment next week and had a suspicion that it would be best devoted to starting to work though this problem before it got out of hand, like so many things could with him.  And Arthur would be happy to come along and help him through it.

      “You’re right.  You are absolutely right and I’m glad that you were able to give Mycroft a hand when he needed it.  Now… can you fill me in?”

      “I’ll have to ask Mycroft first.  I’m telling you as much as I told Greg and I can because I’m not telling any fibs or breaking any promises.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed sharply and Martin unconsciously moved a little closer to Arthur to offer protection from whatever was to come.

      “What have you told Lestrade?  And what exactly do you know about his and Mycroft’s situation?”

      “Oh… well, I just answered questions that Greg asked me, so I can’t say I _told_ him anything.  I really just _answered_ him anything that that’s not the same anythings.  He wanted to know if there was something he didn’t know about and I said that maybe yes there was and then he asked if it was worth it being Mycroft’s boyfriend and I said sure!  But he also asked if the thing he didn’t know about was a bad thing and I think I muffed that a little because I told him it was… well, I didn’t say it wasn’t bad, but I didn’t say it was actually good, which it’s not and I’m not certain if he really understood what I was saying.  But that’s ok, since he and Mycroft are a brilliant couple and will actually get to be a _real_ couple as soon as… well, as soon as.”

      “So Lestrade has suspicions as to the nature of Mycroft’s actions.  That… changes things.”

      “I talked to him last night and he just said they were friends.  But Greg wanted to be more… he said that, too.”

      “He did!  Oh Skip, that’s great!  Really, you don’t know how great.  I mean it is absolutely, positively brilliant and… Mycroft is going to be so happy!”

      “Love, I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I’m going to assume you’ll tell me sometime, right?”

      “Oh yes!  Cross my heart I’ll tell you, Skip.  Anyway since I can apparently throw a very nice party, I may have to throw them one and then you’ll know no matter what since you’ll have to blow up the balloons again.”

Sherlock had let the banter fade into the background as he contemplated what Arthur had said.  Lestrade suspected.  His actions now seemed not so rash and misguided.  He had thought the misgivings Lestrade had suffered weeks ago had passed.  Certainly the man had not broached the subject of Mycroft’s behavior again, but apparently he had cultivated a more fertile and easily-tillable source of data, though he obviously lacked concrete facts…

      “I need to speak with John.”

Sherlock left the table, hoping that neither Martin nor Arthur noticed that he absconded with the remaining pancake on his brother’s plate.  It was a kindness for Mycroft’s waistline and he should be thanked for his efforts.  He found his partner curled in a chair staring out of the window, face still flushed and muscles tense.

      “John?”

      “Not… not now, Sherlock.”

      “John, you have no reason to be upset for anything you might have said or done.”

      “You’re right, I don’t!  What happened to him, Sherlock?  What did Mycroft _do_?  That man is not the Greg Lestrade I knew.  The man I knew had backbone!  Character!  Stood on his own two feet… how in the hell can he do this to himself?”

      “What did he say?”

      “That they weren’t involved but… he wouldn’t be unhappy if that changed.  Christ, Sherlock… how much pain is he going to take before he sees the truth?”

      “Who are we to say what is the truth?”

      “Oh, that’s rich… you’re the one who believes he is the supreme arbiter of truth.  Sherlock, you can’t tell me we’re not thinking the same on this.  If there’s one person in the world who knows your brother, it’s you.”

Unfortunately, that particular fact was somewhat in dispute at the moment.

      “The last portion of your yelling indicated that Lestrade believes we should stay out of his business.  Perhaps we should honor that request.”

      “You have got to be kidding me.”

      “There is no reason for me to be less than plain in this issue.”

      “We can’t leave this alone, Sherlock.  Lestrade’s our friend.”

      “And is this how one treats a friend?”

      “Oh, you bastard.  And for the record, yes!  Friends kick you arse-over-elbows when you do something stupid.”

      “And now that you have done that, what is the next responsibility of a friend?”

      “I… I don’t know.  I’m just so angry!  I cannot let him put himself in the line of fire again.  I can’t, Sherlock… I just can’t.”

      “Ultimately, it is Lestrade’s decision and perhaps… we should trust that he will decide wisely.  If not… we are not abandoning him, are we?”

      “What?  NO!  Absolutely not.  He’s my mate, Sherlock.  Probably the best one I have right now... just give me a little time to cool down, ok?  And let me guess… Mycroft’s out there sucking Greg further into the darkness…”

      “I would assume that is where he went when he fled the kitchen after Lestrade passed through.”

      “Wonderful.  Simply bloody wonderful.  Good going, Watson.  Drive Greg even closer to the devil.”

      “If it is any consolation, I stand by my assertion that Mycroft will do nothing untoward while we are present.  He would prefer a more subtle approach, away from prying eyes.”

      “Yeah… I guess you’re right.  About that, at least.  Give me a day, Sherlock.  Just give me a day to settle down and I’ll try talking to him again.”

      “I assume that will be satisfactory.  However, I would advise that you not disturb Lestrade any further.  I do not believe he is well.”

      “No… he isn’t.  He looks like crap, doesn’t he?  My day to be the hero.”

      “Come along, John.  I am sure that Arthur is worried about you and you did not finish your meal.  Do you want me to say everything will be alright?”

      “Do you believe that?”

      “I lack sufficient facts to make a determination.”

      “Yeah… me too.”

__________

      “Gregory!  Stop!”

Mycroft hastened after the Detective Inspector who was pacing furiously back and forth, fists clenched so tightly Mycroft swore he would soon see blood dripping from between the man’s fingers.

      “Gregory… you must calm yourself.  It is not good for you to be this upset.”

      “Fucking John Watson.  Who the _hell_ does he think he is…”

      “Your friend, my dear.  That is who the good doctor believes himself to be.  And you corroborated this fact, along with the belief that you would share his views were the situation to present itself.”

Lestrade kicked at the ground and tried to think of a snappy comeback, but there wasn’t one.  Damn Mycroft for being reasonable.

      “He didn’t have to be such a bastard about things though, did he?”

      “No, John could have handled the discussion in a far better manner, but that cannot now be changed.  Do you… for the issue at hand, how did his words affect you?”

      “They pissed me off is what they did!”

      “Besides that, Gregory.  He is your confidant and advisor for many things; it would not be unsurprising if you were to experience a proverbial change of heart in regards to… matters… after this interaction.”

      “Huh?  No… no, that’s not what’s on my mind… I’m just tired, Mycroft.  Tired of being hurt, tired of being angry.  Tired of being tired.  It just seems like the moment I get my feet set lately, someone comes by to kick them out from under me and… it’s wearing me down.  No, it’s _worn_ me down.  There’s just not much left right now and I feel like I’m holding on by the very tips of my fingers…”

Mycroft moved forward and took the despondent figure into his arms, dropping his hands low to settle around Lestrade’s waist and pressing his chest to the man’s back.

      “That is what I am here for, my dear, though I have been instrumental in bringing you to this state.  Let me take your worries for these few days and allow yourself to relax.  You are too close to breaking and I cannot stand to let that happen.  Soon you must return to your service and if you are not replenished you shall require far more than a few days to regain your balance.”

      “Wish I could say that wasn’t true.  Four homicides on my plate now and Sherlock says it’s boring and won’t muck in to lend a hand.” 

      “I can speak to him, if you wish.”

      “You know that will just make him run faster in the opposite direction.”

      “You are likely correct, unfortunately.”

      “I just can’t get a handle on this one!  Victims were all male, similar in appearance, held some civil position… and that’s it.  We can’t find one additional connection and everything we find in their background or financials…”

      “Gregory… I simply forbid you to think about such things right now.  Let others take that burden for the moment and allow yourself some peace.”

Lestrade leaned back to put even more of himself in contact with Mycroft and let himself take a few moments to do as Mycroft asked… push his troubles away and simply relax.  And wish on whatever stars might want to do a chap a favor that one day he could count on this whenever he needed it.

      “Feeling better, my dear.”

      “Getting there.  I don’t suppose I can just stand like this all day?”

      “I believe your feet might complain at some point.”

      “Nah, I’ve got cop’s feet.  Stand for days without one twinge.”

      “Then by all means, we shall become a yard decoration for Mrs. Knapp-Shappey.  I have no doubt Arthur would be quite content to tend to our care and feeding.  It is my hope that he uses warm water when he provides us with a washing, however.”

      “He would.  He’s a good boy like that.  He’d also make us costumes and decorate us for holidays.  And I think Arthur celebrates a lot more holidays than the average person.”

Lestrade willed down the shudder that went through him when Mycroft pressed his lips to his temple and chuckled.

      “I fear you are correct.  Shall we return inside, before we are outfitted as incarnations of Cupid?”

      “Good idea… I don’t want that to be the next picture of me on Arthur’s picture wall.”

      “The thought _is_ distressing.”

__________

      “Sherlock!  You were warned…”

      “You cannot place the blame for John’s justifiable anger on my shoulders.”

      “No, but I can place the blame for John acting on that anger onto you.  Have you any idea how distressed was Gregory after their altercation?”

      “I can assume it was significant.”

      “You will curtail John’s behavior towards Gregory or I shall take steps myself to ensure Gregory’s well-being.”

      “John is currently ‘cooling off,’ but I believe that he will require a full day to return to his normal placid state.  This situation has not been easy on him, either.  Lestrade has not exactly been forthcoming with the details of your ongoing association.  If he had done so, we would not be in this position.”

      “There is some merit to that argument.  However, I believe Gregory feared losing his base of support when he knew it was greatly needed.”

      “And John is severely agitated that Lestrade is emotionally self-harming.  _I_ am very disturbed that John is looking to _me_ for guidance.”

      “This is the cost we pay, brother, to bring someone into our hearts.”

      “Then you fully admit it.”

      “I admit nothing.”

      “He suspects.  Lestrade knows there is a game in play.”

      “Yet he does not know the specifics.”

      “Is this why he is choosing to suffer your presence in his life?”

      “It is called hope, Sherlock.  Something with which you are very familiar.”

      “However, John _knows_ he has my love in return.”

      “But that was not always the case.  Such is the nature of hope.  Now…I believe it would behoove us to keep our respective, shall we say, companions separated for the time being to allow equilibrium to reestablish.”

      “I must agree.  Shall you take Lestrade for his ridiculous walking excursion?”

      “I had not planned to, for Gregory truly does need rest, but perhaps Martin and Arthur know of a gentle walk that can be had in the area.”

      “Lestrade is not going to perish because he puttered around a sheep field, Mycroft.”

      “Says the man who wanted me to have John’s place of work shuttered because he toiled an entire three days in a row and required a nap upon returning home in the evening.”

      “Their demands on him were insupportably harsh!”

      “Of course they were.  And Gregory is fighting a highly-stressful case on which you refuse to offer support.”

      “It holds no interest.”

      “And he suffers for it.”

      “What would you have me do?”

      “Intervene.  If the investigation offers no challenge then it should be a simple matter to affect a resolution.”   

      “If I must.”

      “I shall not force you, Sherlock.  But if you choose to do so based on your regard for Gregory’s welfare, then I shall offer you my gratitude.”

      “I don’t want it.”

      “Oh good, then I can save it for someone more deserving.”

__________

The rest of the day passed with little tension since the household divided itself into two portions that stayed far away from each other.  John, Sherlock and Arthur stayed near basecamp, working on clean up in the morning, then settling in for an afternoon of Arthur’s videogames, for which Sherlock found he had untapped talent, besting both Arthur and John in various games involving characters made with virtual Lego blocks.  Martin joined Mycroft and Lestrade for a walk and picnic in a greener area surrounding Fitton, taking the time to learn more about Lestrade and the relationship he had with Mycroft.  By the end of their day, there was one thing of which Martin was very sure… if Mycroft let Lestrade get away, he was the world’s biggest fool.

Dinner was relatively neutral, with John and Lestrade interacting with everyone but each other so that conversation still flowed and everyone was mostly able to avoid the very white elephant sitting in the middle of the kitchen juggling jars of jam.

      “Arthur, my boy… this was great.  Who would have thought that chicken, mango and herring would be such a… hearty… combination.  Kudos to you.  Maybe tomorrow night, I can take kitchen duty and give you a little treat of my own.”

      “That would be brilliant!  I’d love to have you cook, Greg.  Not that I want you to work, but I’d really like to taste what you’ve cooked.  I’m sure Mycroft has gotten to try lots of things and why should he have all the fun!”

Both Lestrade and Mycroft successfully hid the wince of pain that laced through them, though John happily wore a smug grin.

      “Unfortunately, Arthur, I have not been able to yet sample Gregory’s cuisine.  Not for fault on his part, mind you.  However, I hope to rectify that in the future.”

      “Like tomorrow!  Oh… Greg, can I help?  We could do a special dinner and I could even take out Mum’s dishes that she says I can’t use without adult supervision.”

      “You want to help, Arthur, you’re welcome to help.”

      “Brilliant!  Let’s go!”

      “Go?  Go where?”

      “Shopping!  We’ll need to get lots of things and we might as well get them now while we’re all fired up to cook.  That makes it so much easier since you’re all YEAH!  and everything looks so good, not like when you’re tired and everything looks all… ugghhh… “

      “Arthur, it’s rather late.  I’m sure there’s not anything open…”

      “Well, not in Fitton.  But it’s not that far to one of those brilliant shops that stays open late and has everything you could possibly imagine to eat.  Even things that no one could imagine to eat!  If we leave now, we’ll have time to get there and do our shopping and we’ll buy ice cream so that when we get back we can all have ice cream and watch a film and… please, Greg!  My brain has too many ideas for fun right now and we have to go or I’ll go a bit daffy and Skip will have to sit me down for some quiet time.”

Lestrade looked around the table and saw he was getting no support from any quarter whatsoever.  Even Mycroft seemed content to have him chauffer Arthur out for a shopping trip, which seemed odd since shopping with Arthur could not possibly be described by the word ‘relaxing.’

      “Alright, lad.  I’m your man.  Make Sherlock give you his keys and we’ll be off.”

      “And where is _your_ vehicle, Lestrade?”

      “Dunno.  Mycroft?”

      “Charles and the car are currently enjoying a holiday in the house I had let for this visit.  I would be loath to have him set aside his own brief holiday when you two would have a far better time alone in Sherlock’s ostentatious vehicle.”

      “It is practical, not ostentatious.  And _you_ provided it kettle, so do not call it black.”

      “Arthur, love.  I think they’re gearing up for another spat, so go find Sherlock’s coat, get the keys and you and Greg save yourselves.  John and I will stay to go down valiantly with the ship.”

      “Yeah!  Come on, Greg!”

And whether he was ready or not, Lestrade was pulled out of his chair and off to escort Arthur for a round of grocery shopping.

      “Lestrade will not return the same man as which he left.”

      “Certainly not, dear brother.  But could any change wrought by Arthur Shappey be anything but beneficial?”

__________

 Of course Mycroft provided the car.  It was massive, state of the art and had a large rear seat for Arthur to sprawl across.

      “How you doing back there?”

      “Brilliant!  Thanks for letting me get my notebook and markers.  I love to draw in a car.  It’s so relaxing and bouncy and I get all sorts of interesting lines when I try to draw my own lines.  It’s like the car’s drawing too!”

      “Well, you enjoy it.  We’ve still got a ways to go to this shop of yours.”

      “Yeah… it’s a little further than I remembered, but it’ll be worth it, I promise.”

Luckily, Lestrade had stolen Shelrock’s credit card while Arthur grabbed his keys because there was no doubt this shopping bill would be more than his bank account could support.

One thing Lestrade didn’t like about the country was driving at night.  Narrow roads, no lights and animals who were completely suicidal trying to ruin your night.  Luckily that hadn’t been a problem yet, but the prat that had been close on his tail the last few miles was getting annoying.  He could be an arse and slam on his brakes, but that would send Arthur flying and probably get him rear-ended.  He could speed up, but he was already at the edge of overrunning the headlamps as it was.  Lestrade chose the gentler option of pulling onto the road’s edge and letting the car pass, proud of himself that a friendly gesture of his didn’t send them on their way.

He wasn’t back on the road five minutes before he _did_ have to brake sharply since a vehicle was parked directly across the road and it was a vehicle he recognized because he saw it a few moments before.  The lights were off and there was no way to pass around since they’d entered a wooded area and the trees were growing close to the road’s edge.  No choice but to stop.

      “Greg?  Why are you…”

      “Arthur, I want you to listen to me, ok?  I need you to do what I say and not ask questions.  Lie on the floorboard and press yourself as close to the front seat as you can.  And I need you to stay absolutely silent.  No matter what happens, no matter what you hear or think you hear, I need you to stay quiet, on the floor and in the car.  Understand?”

      “No!  Greg, what…”

      “Now, Arthur.  Trust me.”

And Arthur did.  If Greg was using his serious policeman’s voice then something was terribly wrong.  He dropped onto the floor, taking his pencils and notebook with him and positioned himself exactly as Greg had asked.  He heard the car door open and knew that he was being left alone.

      “Hey!  Mind moving your car so that people can pass?”

      “I do mind, actually.  This way, we get our chance to talk and I have been waiting for this for quite awhile.”

Lestrade watched as a figure moved out of the darkness and into the light from Lestrade’s headlamps.

      “Edgar?”

      “You remember me!  I am flattered.  But then again, no I’m not. I _am_ very memorable, after all.”

      “What the fuck are you doing here?”

      “Protecting what’s mine.  You’ve been a surprisingly painful thorn in my side, Detective Inspector Lestrade.  Yes, I do know who you are.  I took pains to find out when my Mycroft could not seem to loosen his grip on you.  Now… we are men of the world, are we not?  We understand that a man like you can attract a man like him, because you offer the baseness, the vulgarity that he cannot experience in our own circle.  But we also understand that you have a place and that is where my problem lies.”

Lestrade considered his options and realized that no matter what happened here, his first duty was to protect Arthur.  Keep the focus on himself at all times.

      “Please, do go on.  I love a good story, especially a spicy one.”

      “Then we have something in common!  I also enjoy a good story, so I shall share my favorite with you.  A beautiful prince finds a… well, passable… king and they are set to live happily ever after except for the king’s affection for the pet that sits and wags his tail at the foot of the throne.  That’s you if you couldn’t figure it out on your own.  The beautiful prince realizes that the horrid pet needs to be gotten rid of because the king insists on giving it affection that would better be spent elsewhere.  Such as on me.  Did you think I didn’t know about your little meetings?  I couldn’t care less if he was shagging you in the middle of Whitehall, but to take you out?  Spend time with you as if you were his partner and not me?  That is unforgivable.”

      “Look, Edgar… Mycroft and I are just friends.  Not matter what you might think, there’s nothing more between us, so why don’t you…”

      “He says your name in his sleep.”

The way the words were hissed out made Lestrade’s blood run cold.  This was not someone with whom he would be able to reason…

      “And he brings you _here_.  Do you think I don’t know who is here with Mycroft?  Those closest to him.  That idiot who calls and texts him incessantly, his pathetic cousin, his brother… at least Sherlock has some degree of style and interest, though he wastes it on his pedantic doctor.  And where am I?  Not in the mix, at all.  And that is not acceptable.  I don’t blame you, Detective Inspector.  You are far too common to influence Mycroft’s behavior through your own conscious actions.  So, I have been generous, tried to keep you occupied so that… well, let’s just say, out of sight and out of mind.  I threw four bodies at you to play with.  Well, not me, per se, that is the purpose of knowing individuals who both owe you favors and do not mind sullying their hands with distasteful tasks.  But it didn’t work!  How clearly you failed our citizens, accepting time with Mycroft when there were far more important duties to attend to.  And taking a holiday… I don’t think your next performance evaluation is going to be very laudatory.”

Edgar… no.  The man could not be mad enough to… _four_ murders…

      “Mycroft is mine, Detective Inspector.  He gives me what I want and I like that.  And apparently, for that to continue to happen, the pet has to be put down.”

__________

Arthur lay as quiet as he could listening to the conversation between Lestrade and the man… Edgar!  That was Mycroft’s horrible fake boyfriend.  And he was saying the most terrible things, not that Arthur understood all of them, but if Edgar was saying them, they could _not_ be nice.  He debated briefly leaving the car and going to give this Edgar a piece of his mind for being an awful person when he heard the worst sound in his life… two sharp cracks that split the silence of the night like an axe split a piece of wood.

No… he was wrong.  The worst sound of his life was the heavy thump he heard after that.

Holding onto the hot flood of tears that was threatening, Arthur waited until he heard a car drive away and then crept out from the back of the car.  Then he couldn’t hold back the tears anymore.  He ran across the ground to Lestrade, who was on the ground, blood pouring out of his chest and onto the ground underneath him, laying as still as someone who was… No!

      “Greg!  Oh no.. Greg, can you hear me?  GREG!  PLEASE!  Please talk to me…”

The blood was everywhere… everywhere.  And it was red… so very red in the harsh lights of the car.  He hated red now.  It was the most terrible color in the world.

      “Arth…”

      “GREG!  Talk to me Greg!  You have to talk to me so I know how you are.  And what to do.  What should I do, Greg?  I’m so sorry!”

      “T…tell…”

      “Tell who?  Mycroft?  Was that a nod?  YES!  Mycroft… what do you want me to tell him.  Not that it matters because you’ll be able to tell him yourself and… oh god, Greg…”

Arthur only now noticed that blood was running out of Lestrade’s mouth, sliding down his cheek and onto the ground.

      “T…tell…My…”

      “What Greg?  Tell him what, oh...”

Lestrade’s eyes were glassy and had no focus, but there was something in his face that answered Arthur’s question.

      “I will, Greg!  I’ll tell him.  I’ll tell him that you love him and want to be with him and that you’ll be together forever.., I will, but you have to hold on… you have to hold on for Mycroft and me…”

But Lestrade knew that wasn’t possible.  All he had wanted… didn’t matter.  But at least Mycroft would know…

      “Greg?  Greg… Greg!  NO!  GREG YOU CAN’T STOP BREATHING!  YOU CAN’T!  YOU HAVE TO KEEP BREATHING!  YOU HAVE TO, GREG... oh god, no… 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eventhorizon451.tumblr.com for your slings and arrows...


	34. Even a Candle Can Part the Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every comment is read and treasured and I adore them all. Every kudo is a little piece of candy to sweeten my day. And I am grateful for every one

What to do? He had no idea what to do but... he _did_ know what to do.  He did!  He wasn’t finished, but he had gone to every one of his first aid classes and one of the first things they had taught him was CPR, which got Skip upset because he didn’t like being called a practice dummy.  But… there was so much blood and he had to push on Greg’s chest and there were… there were holes in his chest…

It didn’t matter.  He could do this and it would help and Greg wouldn’t die and he’d get to live happily ever after with Mycroft and they’d be boyfriends and more and they’d come and visit and be together and… MYCROFT!  He had to call Mycroft!  And an ambulance!  But, Greg wasn’t breathing and… no… his heart wasn’t working and… gotta do this first and try and make him alive again because Greg couldn’t die, he couldn’t leave them…

Arthur did everything just like they showed him and that he’d practice and realized that (1) it was hard and took a lot of work and (2)…things cracked if you did something wrong.  But he had to call Mycroft and Mr. Sherlock.  And Skip and John… Arthur grabbed his phone out of his pocket between breathing for Greg and trying to be his heart for him and… NO!  He didn’t have time for a talk.  He couldn’t hold the phone or risk getting distracted and it was so slippery now… how would he even push the screen and get the numbers right!  Numbers… just one!   Arthur quickly wiped his finger and slammed it against the icon for his emergency number and hoped that was enough, even without his special word.  Mycroft and Mr. Sherlock had to come anyway, right?  They _had_ to… because he couldn’t keep trying to make Greg stay alive for a lot longer…

__________

      “John!  If you insist on showering right now, you should at least have the courtesy to let me watch.”

      “Bored?”

      “No.”

      “Randy?”

      “Perhaps.”

      “Well, I could put this off and we could make sure I’m especially dirty first.  Be a shame to waste water on anything less than a completely filthy body.”

      “That could be accommodated.”

      “Come here, then.”

John dropped the towel he’d put on to walk to the bathroom and beckoned Sherlock closer, enjoying his partner’s little smile and the loosening of his scarf.  When Sherlock’s mobile sounded, John wanted to hurl it into a wall, but stopped seeing the new look on Sherlock’s face.  And… he’d heard that ringtone before.

      “SHERLOCK!”

Mycroft’s voice boomed through the house and Sherlock was racing downstairs, John following moments later with a quick pair of track pants tossed on at the last second.  The scene when he caught up with Sherlock was an unsettling tableau of the Holmes brothers bent over their mobiles and Martin… oh christ, Martin looked as if we was about to faint.  John raced over and braced the man’s shoulders, feeling the nonstop trembling running through Martin’s body.

      “We must depart.”

      “You have the coordinates?”

      “They are automatically generated.”

      “Has this been verified?”

      “I frankly don’t care.”

John listened with growing confusion, which was broken as Martin clutched his arm and whispered ‘Arthur’s emergency number’ nearly collapsing once the words were out of his mouth.

      “Martin!  Sherlock we need to go now!  Martin… keys.  We need your keys.”

      “Sherlock, take Martin.  John, do you have your bag with you perchance?  It might be necessary.”

      “Right.  One second.”

John flew up the stairs to grab his medical bag and a shirt, nearly colliding with Sherlock as he returned back downstairs.

      “Arthur’s car, John.  Go.  Mycroft?”

      “No reports of any disturbances or accidents in the area.  We must assess the situation quickly.”

__________

It could have been a riotously-funny image in any other circumstance.  Mycroft, Sherlock, Martin and John shoved into Arthur’s small car because Martin’s van was too slow and cumbersome for a trip that was anything but meandering.   Mycroft was driving and doing a terrifyingly good job of it, performing some maneuvers that John was sure a stunt driver could not pull off without weeks of rehearsal.  John had taken the back seat with Martin, both for the lack of need for legroom and to keep close watch on the young man who was rapidly spiraling downward into a fearful depression as his mind ran through every possible reason Arthur could have used his emergency number, each more horrifying than the next

      “Slow down, we’re getting close.”

The words were barely out of Sherlock’s mouth when they rounded a curve and saw the bright lights of a stopped car and it was all Mycroft could do not to brake the car so hard that Sherlock went flying through the window.  For several seconds all four men stared at the scene in front of them before Martin began beating on Mycroft’s shoulders to get him to exit so he could get to Arthur.  Mycroft shocked back to reality and nearly dove out of the vehicle, trailed closely by Sherlock, with John and Martin only a few steps behind.

And what all four saw was a sweat and blood soaked Arthur desperately clinging to the last remnants of his strength as he fought to keep Lestrade from leaving them permanently.  He was so focused on his mission that he even failed to realize he was no longer alone until John slid onto the ground next to him and took over chest compressions.

      “DOCTOR WATSON!  Oh thank you!  Thank you thank you thank you…”

      “Keep your rhythm, Arthur, you’re doing great.  Just keep him breathing…  Sherlock!  Call an ambulance!”

John had to yell his instructions several more times, to both Sherlock and Mycroft before Martin snatched the mobile from Sherlock’s pocket to dial 999 only to be stopped by Mycroft who touched an icon on his own mobile instead.

      “The response shall be faster.”

 _In the next moment_ , Mycroft was beside Lestrade, kneeling in a mix of dirt and blood, taking up his cool hand and rubbing as if to bring back some of the heat.  Gregory would be very upset that he appeared so pale, as he took great pride in his swarthier complexion.  And such a mess, but Gregory _did_ prefer a less ordered environment.  It was a precious quirk that he looked forward to debating when the care of a home became a shared issue.  So cold, too… how strange it felt on his skin.  Gregory emitted heat like a blast furnace and it would be a lovely thing in the winter, nestling against his body as they did last night.  Now, all Gregory had to do was wake up and they could leave this unpleasant place.  Arthur did want a film tonight and the poor boy looked as if he could use one.  So, as soon as Gregory decided to cease this foolishness, they could go about the rest of the night as planned… they could go about the rest of their lives as planned…

 _One more moment later_ , Martin was also on the ground, reaching out with one finger to touch Arthur’s skin as if it reassure himself that what he was seeing was real and not a phantom.  Though, he wished it was… his Arthur should not be dripping sweat and covered with blood.  Blood on his hands, his face, his legs… Arthur should be clean and smelling of spun sugar and crisp fresh air, not the coppery sharpness of blood and grime and sweat and tears.  But in all of that, despite the pure anguish on his face, Arthur was glorious.  Shaking with fatigue and fear, but positively the most spectacular thing Martin had ever seen.  This was not the Arthur everyone thought they knew, but it was the Arthur that Martin loved with every part of his heart and wished every day he could grow to be good enough to deserve.

 _Another moment_ did not bring Sherlock next to John because he was already working.  Once emergency personnel arrived, the scene would be irrevocably compromised and that was not something he would allow.  Nothing would impede his bringing of Lestrade’s assailant to justice, even if justice was satisfied out of sight of any courtroom.  So all of the evidence, each observation, every piece of data had to be collected now.  John could manage the medical aspects of the situation.  That was John’s strength.  He had no facility for that.  There was nothing he could do to help.  Nothing but this…

His vehicle with the back door open, Arthur’s pencils and notebook on the floor.  Not scattered, but neatly placed as if Arthur had been lying there and set them aside when he exited.  With his torch, Sherlock searched the area and found footprints, two sets.  One was Lestrade’s size and facing away from the car.  The other was slightly larger and facing towards the car.  The outline suggested the shoes were custom made, so not a perpetrator of limited means.   A quick photograph with his phone documented the shape for future research.  Further investigation uncovered the tire prints, placed to indicate that a car had been positioned to block the road and prevent passage.  Sherlock took a picture of the tire imprints, as it was one he had not seen before, which was a highly irregular event and, again, indicated a person of wealth if they owned a vehicle that required custom tires.  There was no indication of any further cars or individuals… it was a trap.  A trap perpetrated by a single individual.  They blocked the road, Lestrade exited the car, there was no struggle…  When he was prepared, Arthur would deliver additional details that should further enable him to investigate the matter.  And this would be one occasion that he would not refuse Mycroft’s assistance.

__________

John and Arthur continued CPR, Arthur slowly recuperating from pushing his body beyond what he would have ever thought possible and he nearly buckled with relief when he heard the sound of sirens, getting louder by the second.  Lots of sirens.  And… was that a helicopter?  Arthur thought he would like to ride in a helicopter one day.  It was probably like being in GERTI, but louder and more shaky, but it would be brilliant!  Him and Mycroft and Greg in a helicopter flying around… Oh!  Maybe Skip could learn to fly a helicopter and then they all could go.  And Doctor Watson and Mr. Sherlock.  And Greg.  It would have to be a big helicopter, but Mycroft would get them one and then they could all go riding and everyone would be boyfriends and Greg would be there holding Mycroft’s hand and laughing with him and doing the little silly things he did to make Mycroft give his own _like_ like smile and…”

      “Arthur!  It’s ok… let the nice man take over for you.”

Arthur whipped his head around to see the area crawling with people and a young man kneeling next to him waiting to take his job, but he had to check again and, yes, Doctor Watson had moved away to let someone take over being Greg’s heart while he got off the ground and ran to one of the waiting ambulances, jumped in and jumped back out carrying a happy orange blanket that Arthur was surprised was laid across his shoulders.

      “You’re officially part of the Shock Blanket Club, Arthur.  We’ll get you checked out soon, ok?”

John gave Arthur a hard squeeze on the shoulder as they watched Lestrade be lifted and placed on the stretcher and wheeled away to an ambulance, medics working furiously to keep him from fading away.  It was only then that John noticed the Mycroft was still kneeling in the dirt, staring at the ground where Lestrade had been laying.  He motioned Arthur to his feet then nodded at Mycroft.  Arthur nodded back and then at Martin who helped him coax Mycroft to his feet and in motion towards the crowd of emergency vehicles.  The sights and noise snapped Mycroft back to attention and Arthur was amazed at how the man could be so completely lost one second and completely in command the next.  Little did he know that this, for Mycroft, was actually operating on auto-pilot.

      “Martin, Arthur, I’m going to ride with the ambulance.  You know where we’re going, right?”

      “I know, John.  We’ll be right behind you.”

      “And… make sure Mycroft is ok.  Keep an eye on him for me.”

      “We will, Doctor Watson!  We’ll make sure he’s ok, I can promise that.  I can do that, I really can… I can make him not so sad… I really…”

      “It’s alright, love.  I’ll do the watching right now.  You just… you just leave it to me.  Now, why don’t you go and find Sherlock, he’ll want to come with us.”

      “Ok… Mr. Sherlock. Ok… he’s probably looking for clues or talking to Greg or… wait, where did Greg go…”

Martin looked at his partner and saw a devastated Arthur slowly falling apart now the adrenaline was ebbing and he took the taller man into his arms, giving him silent permission to just let go, which Arthur did in great heaving sobs.

      “That’s it, love… you just let it all out.  I love you, Arthur… you just let it all out and I’ll be right here for you.  Just let it out…”

__________

Sherlock watched the ambulance leave, knowing John would be inside and felt a great deal of relief from that fact.  No one would do anything wrong while John was watching and he would permit no neglect or disrespect where Lestrade was concerned.  Sherlock then surveyed the scene around him, seeing everything he feared come true.  It was almost like watching the dancing from Martin’s party, feet everywhere obliterating any trace of evidence which, fortunately he had already gathered.  He then scanned and found Martin comforting Arthur, who was only now allowing himself to process what he had endured and Sherlock… Sherlock experienced a swell of pride so strong it was nearly painful.   And to think… it had been a near thing that he had allowed Arthur to follow him that original day at the airfield when he arrived to investigate Martin’s disappearance.  One word or gesture here or there and Arthur would not be a part of his life.  Nor, likely, would Martin.  And that was a difficult thought to bear.

Another look around landed his eyes on his brother and... Sherlock didn’t need to expend any mental energy to see that his brother was holding himself together with nothing but willpower and years of practice, as he set in motion a legion of people and resources to find the person who had sent Lestrade to stand at the foot of his own grave.  Every motion was precise and measured, every word perfectly picked so that his messages were precise and obeyed without the slightest hesitation.  He was calm, poised, articulate, in command… and it was a disguise.  A costume worthy of being trotted in front of a movie camera.   Sherlock had never felt sorry for his brother, never felt sympathy or compassion and he was quite certain he did not feel those things now.  But he did feel _something_ and that was a change.  Maybe… maybe he would take time, at some point, to decide it was a change for the better…

__________

When Mycroft had dispatched every individual to some task, he took a moment to reinforce the mental wall he had built to contain the images that had burned themselves harshly into his mind and the emotions, ridiculous disadvantageous emotions, that accompanied them.  He had responsibilities to attend to.  Young Arthur must be taken care of, though cousin Martin was doing an admirable job of providing the necessary strength and love that the boy desperately needed at the moment.  More would be required, however.  He would need help to recover from this trauma and Mycroft made the boy a mental promise that he would receive any amount of assistance he required, including every second he desired of Mycroft’s own time.  How could he not give everything he could, everything of _himself_ he could to Arthur, who had done… who had earned a debt of gratitude Mycroft could live a hundred lifetimes and never fully repay.

      “Mycroft?”

      “Ah, Sherlock.  I believe it is time for us to depart.  I trust Martin knows the way, else I can determine the proper route...”

      “I will drive.”

      “Thank you, but that is not necessary.”

      “The keys.  I will drive.  You… will sit.”

      “Sherlock…”

      “That is the final word in the matter, Mycroft.  Relinquish the keys and allow me to drive.”

Mycroft hesitated for a long moment before he complied and neither brother made eye contact while Mycroft plucked the keys from his pocket and handed them to Sherlock.  The refusal to meet each other’s eye carried on while they walked together towards Martin and Arthur, though they walked together just a tiny bit closer than usual.

      “Martin… Arthur… are you prepared to leave?”

Before Martin could answer, Arthur’s raised his head and fixed the detective with surprisingly purposeful eyes.

      “I’m ready.  We have to be there for Greg.  He won’t do as well if we’re not there and he needs to do as well as possible right now because… even if he’s not doing what he should be doing like breathing or… anything… he’s going to fight and he’ll fight harder if he knows we’re there to cheer him on.  So let’s go.  Right now.  Really, why aren’t we getting in the car?”

      “An astute observation, Arthur.  We should make haste.  I am sure both Gregory and John would be far more content with our presence close by and we should have you looked at, as well, my boy.”

      “I’m fine.  I mean… I’m not fine, but I wasn’t… “

      “Come along, Arthur.  We can talk later.”

      “Really?   I’d like that.”

      “As would I.”

__________

Sherlock didn’t have Mycroft’s skill behind the wheel, but he did a credible of job of speedily navigating the narrow local roads and getting them to the hospital.  Arthur and Martin rode in the rear seat, clinging to each other, with Martin providing a continuous stream of reassurance that everything would work out for the best.  Mycroft sat in the passenger’s seat, fixated on his mobile, typing what seemed to be an endless stream of instructions, though his eyes roamed often out of the window to stare into the darkness.  For his part, Sherlock concentrated only on driving, letting no stray thought intersect his line of focus.  Once he talked to John… once he talked to John and knew Lestrade would recover… then other thoughts could step up to be analyzed.

Mycroft was the first out of the car when Sherlock cut the engine and was met by the hospital administrator who escorted him into the building, the remaining three following fast on their heels.

      “And I assure you, Mr. Holmes that Mr. Lestrade…”

      “Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

      “Oh…. oh!  A law enforcement official.”

      “And someone important to me, so you would do well to provide a quality of care that would not cause me to question your employment and citizenship status.”

      “Dear me… I can assure you, Mr. Holmes, that he will receive the best of… ah!  Doctor Watson, thank heavens… I mean, could you bring Mr. Holmes up to date and I shall… whatever you require, sir, please let me be of service.”

The man scurried away, looking over his shoulder as if he was honestly worried there was a gun trained on his back.

      “John, please… how is Gregory?”

      “He’s being prepped for surgery.  It’s too soon to say anything right now, but he’s still with us.”

      “And your honest opinion?  Please do me the courtesy of forgoing the standard compassionately comforting answer.”

      “Ok… that’s fair.  It doesn’t look good.  He took two large-caliber hits to the chest and hasn’t been breathing on his own, though we at least have a heart rhythm that’s relatively stable.  He’s lost a great deal of blood and until he’s opened up, they won’t know the extent of the damage, but… it’ll be bad.  And I mean very, very bad.”

John had never really understood the saying that someone wasn’t really there, but he saw it for a moment in Mycroft.  He wasn’t there, not at all.  It was like his body was simply standing because it hadn’t been told what gravity was all about.  It only lasted a minute but it made a pit in John’s stomach open because he knew that is exactly how he would look if it was Sherlock bleeding away behind cold white hospital doors.

      “Thank you, John.  I appreciate your candor.  You will be attending the surgery, will you not?”

      “Uh, no… that’s not really…”

      “My mistake, I framed that as a question.  You _will_ be attending the surgery.”

      “Mycroft, it’s not a good idea to get involved too closely when it’s someone you…”

      “I will not entrust Gregory’s safety to a stranger’s hands.  And… he would be reassured knowing that someone whose skills he values and admires was providing his care.”

      “I… ok.  I can do that.  I can at least observe and make sure it’s all done right.  But, it’s going to be awhile, I’ll tell you that right now, so you might want to get some rest.”

      “I shall be right here, John, for however long it takes.  But I shall endeavor to convince the others to make b…better use of the time.  Dear Arthur  cer… certainly does not need to be here… he deserves… I will convince Martin to take him home and…”

Mycroft stumbling over his words nearly broke John’s heart.  No matter their differences and Mycroft’s actions, it was clear that he still cared deeply for Lestrade.

      “You do that.  Look, I’ve got to go… I’ll send word when I can.”

      “Thank you, John.  I am not entirely sure if wishing you good luck is appropriate, but…”

      “It is.  And thanks.”

John dashed back into the depths of the restricted areas of the hospital, areas that Mycroft could freely tread if he wished but was, honestly, fearful to visit.  He could not see his Gregory right now. Could not see one thing that might impact his conviction that, despite John’s assessment, the surgery was simply a formality.  Tidy up a few issues and then they would move on happily from there.  In all of his life, what he had willed he had brought about, so why should this be different?  Gregory would recover because Mycroft willed it and… there was no universe in which Mycroft wanted to continue on if he didn’t.

      “Mycroft, what did John say?”

      “Didn’t you hear?”

      “I was occupied with settling Arthur.  He took a rather bad turn when he saw John come out and he wasn’t smiling.”

      “Unfortunate.  However, that is also Gregory’s status.”

Mycroft briefed his brother on the situation, watching Sherlock’s own composure begin to slip hearing no bright spot in the report.

      “John will prevail.  He has, I am sure, seen and successfully managed worse.”

      “That is my sincere hope.  And he will battle as would no other for Gregory’s sake.  Now, shall we both check on Arthur’s condition?  And we must try to convince Martin to take him home, for… it will be hours before we know anything.”

      “I agree, however, I do not predict success in this.”

      “Perhaps not, but it would improper not to try.”

__________

      “NO!  I am not going home!  I… I know I don’t look particularly nice right now, but I am not leaving!  I have to be here!  I HAVE to!”

      “Arthur, love… calm down.  No one will make you do anything you don’t want to, but you heard Mycroft and Sherlock.  Greg won’t be out of surgery for a long time and there’s nothing you can do until then.”

      “I can _be_ here!  You don’t understand, Skip… I have to be here for him.  He… I failed him out there and I can’t do that again.  Not again.”

Arthur was tearing up and Sherlock kneeled down in front of the seated figure, wiping away a trail of water running down Arthur’s cheek.

      “Arthur, you did not fail Gregory.  You saved him.  I can assure you that your actions gave him this chance at life…”

      “But maybe I could have prevented it!  I shouldn’t have listened to him.  I shouldn’t have…”

Sherlock looked up towards his brother and received a small nod to pursue the thread of the conversation.

      “Arthur, what did Lestrade tell you to do?”

      “He told me to get on the floor and not do anything or make any noise until he told me to.  And I did it!  I let him go out there alone and then…  I can still hear it in my head!”

Martin wrapped his arm around Arthur’s shoulder and pulled him close.

      “It’s alright, Arthur.  And you don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.”

      “I do!  Greg is in there… he had holes in him, Skip!  Big holes and he was bleeding and stopped breathing and his heart… maybe I could have done something to make it not happen.”

      “Arthur, are you willing to listen to me for a moment?”

      “Sure, Mycroft… I like to listen to you.”

      “Excellent.  Now pay close attention to what I am going to tell you.  Gregory is a highly-trained law enforcement official.  He evaluated the situation and made a judgment based on proper police procedure and for maximizing the possibility of meeting with a successful and safe outcome for all involved.  He counted on you to follow his instructions and trusted that you would do nothing to compromise the steps he would take.  The steps he was trained to take.  That is an extraordinary amount of trust, my boy, and you demonstrated that his trust was well-placed.  Now, let us assume that you abused his trust; that you _did_ disobey his orders.  Gregory was shot, as they say, in cold blood and I have no doubt his assailant would have gladly done the same to you.  You would both have been lying in the dirt and there would have been no one available to secure help.  We would not be here right now, you are correct.  We would be at the morgue, collecting your bodies for burial.  It is only because of your bravery, cool-headedness and determination that we have you both with us at this time.  I am forever grateful to you, dear boy, and have a lifetime’s admiration for your handling of this situation.”

Mycroft braced himself and was rewarded by the full force of Arthur Shappey slamming into him for a long hug that Mycroft returned unselfconsciously.

      “Thank you, Mycroft.  That means _everything_ to me… I’m still not leaving though.”

      “I won’t make you, my dear.  In fact, I will have a shower and fresh clothing made available to you.  Gregory would be most distressed to learn that you remained here in such an uncomfortable state.”

      “That… that sounds like Greg.  So, Brilliant!  And… can you find me some juice?  Or water?  I’m very thirsty…”

      “I will tend to that immediately.  One moment to check on the progress of my little initiative to find Gregory’s assailant.”

      “Oh, that’s fine.  Would his name help?”

Time seemed to stand still in their waiting room as each man gaped at an increasingly nervous Arthur.

      “YOU KNOW HIS NAME?”

The three-part harmony was not as nice a sound as Arthur might have predicted.  

      “Arthur, why didn’t you…”

      “Arthur, that information is…”

      “Arthur, ignore the cackling crows and listen to me.  See… we can have a calm and polite conversation, can’t we?”

Which was a necessary reassurance since Arthur’s eyes were beginning to go wide with anxiety from being the sudden center of very energetic attention.

      “Yes… calm and polite sounds good to me, Mycroft.”

      “Good, how very, very good.  Now, if you would provide us this name, I can have the authorities locate the individual…”

      “I don’t think you’ll have to bother them with that.”

Mycroft despised confusion but was gaining familiarity with it through association with Arthur.

      “Will you do me the courtesy of explaining that statement?”

      “Well, I think you probably can find him pretty easily.”

      “Further clarification is required, I’m afraid.”

      “I mean… your… _him_.  His name _is_ Edgar, right?”

Sherlock’s body moved from kneeling to sitting as he felt the air knocked from his lungs and Mycroft… Sherlock turned to look at his brother whose face had gone still and hard as glass and the shine in his eyes had nothing to do with tears.

      “Arthur, my boy, are you saying that Edgar, the one with whom I am acquainted, is responsible for this?”

      “I guess I am.  He blocked the road with his car and Greg got out to talk to him, not that he knew who it was at first.  But I could hear them and Greg said ‘Edgar?” just like that, like a question, and Edgar said it _was_ him and then… oh there was some talk about princes and kings and… he called Greg your pet!  He was mad that you were spending time with Greg and that you brought him here and he said… he said the pet had to be put down and I know what that means!  And then… I can still hear it and I don’t want to hear it anymore but I can’t not hear it and…”

Martin pulled Arthur back down and let his love enter his next bout of weeping.  And Martin was content with that.  He was more than happy to be the shoulder for Arthur to cry on, the strength Arthur could draw on.  Arthur had been that for him and now it was his turn.   No, not his turn… his honor.

Sherlock had not taken his eyes off of his brother and began to feel a prickle of electricity run up his back.  The same prickle he felt when he was about to apprehend someone and as soon as Mycroft moved, instinct drove Sherlock to take him down to the floor and pin him to the ground.

      “LET ME GO!”

      “Unlikely.”

      “IMMEDIATELY!”

      “You are making that request even more unlikely.”

Mycroft heaved and Sherlock’s hold loosened letting the older man bolt towards the door, this time being tackled by both Sherlock and Martin.

      “If you desire to kill Edgar Peterson, you had best not do it in a way that betrays your involvement.  Breaking down his door and carving him into pieces with a straight razor will destroy all of your efforts to this point.  He is not worth it.  And Lestrade will not die for an agenda that you sacrificed for your own need for revenge.”

Clarity snapped back into Mycroft’s eyes, quickly joined by a bottomless well of pain.

      “I would ask that you both remove yourselves from my person.”

Martin looked at Sherlock who nodded at him to comply.

      “Thank you.  I will… ruminate on your words.”

      “Acceptable.  Now, I believe you promised Arthur a shower and clothing.  I suspect that food would also be welcome.  Surely your bureaucratic witchcraft can deliver him a hot meal.”

Mycroft sat up, catching his breath, then looked at Arthur whose eyes were saucer-like in amazement at what he had witnessed.

      “I believe I can provide.  Enough for all of us. I fear… it is going to be a very long wait…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little works posted and available on my tumblr: eventhorizon451@tumblr.com


	35. Long Journeys Start Slowly, But Start They Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so very much for your continued support of this fic and all of the wonderful comments!

      “Feeling better, love?”

      “Lots… but you’re sure it’s ok for me to be in here?  The door says ‘Doctors Only.’ “

      “ _Mycroft_ said it was ok for you to be in here, so do you really think anybody is going to object?”

      “That’s a good point.  He does have a way of getting people to see things from his side of the park.”

      “Are you about done?”

      “Just a second.  I want to… I need to scrub my hands a little more.”

Mycroft had taken Martin aside for a small talk about Arthur.  It appeared he was, as usual, right.

      “Your hands are fine, Arthur.  I promise you.  I already checked them, remember?”

      “What?  Oh… oh yeah.  Ok, then… if you say so, Skip.  Do you have my clothes ready?”

      “Right here.  And I’ve binned the old ones for you.”

      “NO!  I… no.  I don’t want them binned.”

      “Arthur… they’re destroyed.  You won’t be able to clean them.”

      “I didn’t say I was going to clean them.”

Why did Mycroft _always_ have to be right?

      “Arthur… you don’t want to keep them.  You really don’t.  You don’t need a reminder of what you went through.”

      “But, I _do_ need a reminder in case…”

      “In case what, love?”

Arthur peeked around the shower curtain and Martin’s heart ached at the sadness on his face.

      “Just… in case.”

      “He’s not going to die, Arthur.  John is going to make sure of that.”

      “You didn’t… you didn’t really see him, Skip.  Or smell him or feel… feel all that blood between your fingers… watching it run onto the ground, out of his mouth…”

Martin pulled the shower curtain aside and drew Arthur out of the shower.

      “No, I didn’t.  And we’ll talk about that.  We’ll talk about everything you saw and heard and did… we’ll talk about as long as you want to, every time you need to.  And we’ll talk to someone else, maybe… you like my therapist Dr. Markham, right?  I bet he’d very much like to talk to you about all of this.  I’ll give him a call and tell him you’d like to talk to him, ok?”

      “Really?”

      “Sure.  And you know how much better I feel after I’ve talked to him, so… I think it will be good if you get that chance, too.”

      “Maybe… I can try, at least.”

      “Good.  And we’ll leave those old clothes in the bin where they belong.”

      “Wait… maybe just something…”

      “How about a button?  I’ll take a button off your shirt.”

      “That’ll be good.  I like buttons, anyway.”

      “I know… now let’s get you dry and dressed.  You still have to call Carolyn, you know.”

      “You don’t think Mycroft would do that for me, do you?”

      “No, but I _would_ pay admission for that show.”

__________

Arthur and Martin were tending to Arthur’s refreshing, Sherlock was pacing the corridor hoping to catch even a glimpse of John and Mycroft was blessedly alone in the waiting area that he had insisted be set aside for their use.  It was good that Sherlock and Martin had pre-empted his actions earlier because this gave him time to craft something truly appropriate for his retribution.  _Edgar_ … how had he been so blind!  How had he missed what had to be cues and tells that there was something amiss?  Truly, he had not thought to ever look for any.  The man was a viper, that much was understood but… they were not… they didn’t have the relationship that would prompt such jealousy!  Or did they… No.  They did not.  They _could_ not for he put nothing of himself into that association.   Nothing but money and indulgence.  But for someone like Edgar Peterson… was that enough?  Of course it was, how stupid to think otherwise.  He had placed Edgar exactly where he wished to be in life… of course he would fight to maintain that position, to be jealous of any encroachment on what he viewed as his spoils.  _He_ had not been able to turn away from his Gregory and his weakness had brought them to this place.  He had failed Gregory over and over and had failed him yet again.  Failed him in the worst possible way.  Failed him as surely as if he had pulled the trigger himself.  There should be no surprise here.  He was a poor excuse for a man and had always been such.  Hiding behind his suits and impassivity, using them as shields.  Shields from what he endured and from what he might visit on others.  Gregory had found a way through those shields and now suffered the consequence.  There was no god, of that Mycroft was certain, but he found himself wishing there was one, if only for there to be someone to whom to pray for his Gregory… and beg forgiveness for himself.

      “You are mistaken, you know.”

      “Ah, Sherlock.  No indication that our vigil is ending?”

      “Though I would find great joy in assigning blame for Lestrade’s predicament to you, it is not the case.”

      “It is you that are mistaken, brother.  This lies squarely on my shoulders.”

      “ _I_ did not foresee this, Mycroft.”

      “You were not intimate with the day-to-day observations.”

      “Perhaps not.  However, I have learned that there are individuals that evade predictions, either because they are too simple when you expect complexity or complex when you envision simplicity.  Then, there are those that operate primarily outside of our mental framework.”

      “The mongoose understands the snake but not the scorpion?”

      “Precisely.”

      “It is my job to understand both the snakes and the scorpions of the world, Sherlock.”

      “Your job, yes.  But this was not about your position.  _This_ , ultimately, was a personal issue and you were not equipped to fully detect, process and evaluate the situation.”

      “My relationship with Edgar _was_ business.”

      “Which you believed to be the extent of it.  If there was a fault in your reasoning, it was that and that alone.”

      “And _that_ was quite enough, wouldn’t you agree?”

      “Gregory will not blame you.”

      “No… but only because he is too noble and kind.”

      “And because, despite… despite what I often tell him, he is not a stupid man.”

      “I do not deserve his forgiveness, Sherlock.  And not only for this.”

      “Perhaps not.  However, I am unfortunately of the mind that he will bestow it anyway.”

      “I am afraid that you are correct.”

      “Then you must honor his choice and accept it.  You cannot subject him to further disrespect.”

      “I am not healthy for him, Sherlock.  I thought it could be different, but I see I was wrong.”

      “No, I do not believe that you are a healthy choice for him to make.  But it is what _he_ believes that is relevant.  And… I have observed that his body language changes when you are in his proximity.  It is much… it is much like what I observe for John…and Martin.”

      “And is that sufficient?”

      “I am the most unqualified individual to ask, however, the facts cannot be disputed.  What will matter most… I must ask, Mycroft… do you…”    

      “I will not answer that.”

      “I believe you just did.”

      “Believe what you will.”

      “I shall.  It will help him… if you tell him.”

      “He will think it pity.”

      “Not if you… John believed me.”

      “John was not condemned to lay in blood-soaked soil because of your actions.”

      “Would you deny he suffered greatly at my hands?  You were there, Mycroft.  You know what my actions did to him.  He might as well have been on that operating table for the damage I inflicted upon him, yet he did not believe my declarations to be given out of pity.”

      “You knew John’s feelings for you.  I have not that reassurance.”

      “You assume a greater confidence than I possessed.  Anyway, it is moot for the moment.  Until we know… until Lestrade is out of surgery and recovering, further discussion is futile.”

      “Agreed.  Sherlock… you will inform me of any recompense I can provide John for his service.  There is nothing too great…”

      “The truth.  He will value that far more than any trinket.”

      “Ah… you do ask the hardest things of me, don’t you?”  But, as you wish.  And, perhaps… I have no doubt that Gregory would want him to provide the remainder of his care as he recovers.  You will allow me to pay him a salary for his work?”

      “I will.  I expect it to be a handsome one, as well.”

      “That goes without saying. And… ah.  There might be news.”

Sherlock turned his head to see John approaching, weariness in his eyes that had more to do with his emotions than physical fatigue.

      “John?”

      “He’s still with us.  Holding on.”

      “The prognosis is favorable?”

      “No.  Not in the least.  He’s butchered inside but… I’ve seen this before.  More times than I care to remember.  I can at least give them advice and get my hands in there when I’m needed.   Believe me, we’re doing everything possible.  If I’d had a chance to piss before jumping in I wouldn’t be standing here now.”

      “I appreciate your attentions, John.  And I am sure Gregory is fighting all the harder knowing you are fighting beside him.”

      “You words to his ear… he’s going to have to beat some very long odds to come out of this.  Look, I have to get back in there.  I’ll send word when I can but… really, you two look dead on your feet.  Get some sleep, we’re hours away from closing him up yet.”

      John turned, but was caught by Sherlock who placed a gentle kiss on his forehead before letting him go to return to the battlefield.

      “You are a lucky man, Sherlock.”

      “I am.  Perhaps you shall be, as well.  Some day.”

__________

      “I can’t.”

      “She’s your mother, Arthur.  You can talk to her on the phone.”

      “No… she’ll be very angry and she’ll yell and then she’ll want me to come home and I’m NOT going home, but that will make her yell more and I can’t handle yelling right now, Skip, and…”

      “It’s ok, love.  I tell you what… you go and sit with Sherlock and Mycroft.  It’s a good time to tell them what you want to eat so Mycroft can get it brought in.  I’ll call Carolyn and let her know what’s going on here and I promise to tell her that you have no plans to leave the hospital until Greg is out of surgery.   Will that be ok?”

      “You’ll do that?  I mean… I know how it makes you nervous to talk to Mum and…”

      “It’s fine, Arthur.  You just to and see about getting some food.  I’ll be there in a minute.”

      “Just a minute right?”

      “Well, maybe a few.  You can time me on your watch and tell me how many when I’m done.”

      “Ok…”

Arthur walked off, looking over his shoulder a few times before he was finally out of eyesight.  It took another few moments for Martin to work up the nerve to phone Carolyn because Arthur was right.  He was nervous talking to her on a _normal_ day and this was anything but a normal day.

      “Martin?  What did you break?  Please tell me it’s something I already have insured.”

      “No one’s broken anything Carolyn.  Look… I need you to listen to me and just let me talk, alright?  I know that’s bloody hard for you, but I really need you to just let me get this all out at once and then you can… you can do whatever you like.”

      “Martin, I never thought that these words would ever be said in my lifetime but, you are frightening me.  Is it… is Arthur alright?”

      “Arthur’s fine.  He’s… it’s going to take some time to work though things, but he’ll be fine.  We had… that is to say, _he_ had a very upsetting thing happen and we’re at the hospital right now…”

      “WHAT!  What’s the matter with him?  Was he hurt?  Did… did someone do something to him?  Martin, you have to tell me…”

      “Carolyn!  I promise… there’s nothing wrong with him.  Nothing at all.  He… it’s like this.  He and Greg, that’s Mycroft’s… friend… went out for groceries and there was… I was going to say accident but it wasn’t.  Ok… They were forced to stop the car, Greg got out to see what was going on, but he made sure to make Arthur hide first… and Greg was shot.  In the chest.  T…two times.  Arthur… you know how he’s been taking the first aid courses, well he kept Greg alive with CPR until we arrived and John took over and then we got an ambulance and now he’s in surgery, Greg that is, not Arthur, and we’re waiting for some word about Greg, but don’t even try and get Arthur to leave, because you’ll be wasting your breath, believe me we’ve already tried, but he’s a hero, Carolyn!  Arthur… Arthur is a _hero_.  He was amazing…”

Martin hoped that something that had dribbled out of his mouth made sense because it seemed that he was having his own issues dealing with what Arthur went through.  It was nice that Carolyn was silent for several moments so that he could pull himself back together.

      “Arthur… my Arthur was involved in a shooting.”

      “Yes.  He was in the car the whole time, though.  Greg made sure he was secure.”

      “And he… Arthur saved a man’s life.”

      “He did.  He performed CPR for… christ, forever!... until we got there and then kept up with the ‘R’ part while John took over on the ‘CP’ end of things.  Greg’s still alive only because Arthur kept his head and never gave up.  Never _once_ gave up.”

      “I… I see.  May I speak… can I talk to him?”

Martin had never heard Carolyn’s voice break in all the time he’d known her.

      “I sent him to sit with Mycroft and Sherlock.  I’ll tell him you want to talk to him and he’ll call.  He… he was a bit worried that he’d have to handle too many… words, emotions, I don’t know… if he talked to you right now.”

      “He thought I’d yell at him.”

      “That _was_ mentioned.”

      “I can’t say he’s wrong.  I want to _scream_ at him at the moment.  Scream and beat on that thick head of his and… do you need anything?  I assume if the idiot child is refusing to leave the hospital that he will not be moved if the Queen commanded it.”

      “Mycroft’s already tried, and that’s the next best thing.  I think we’re set for now.  He’s showered and changed, we’ll get him something to eat and, if need be, I’ll see about finding him somewhere to get some sleep.  John said it’s going to be a long time before we get any news.”

      “Very well.  Tell him… tell him that I would appreciate that he call me so that I can… so that I can hear his voice.”

      “I will.”

      “Good.  Martin, you are to continue taking proper care of Arthur and making him as comfortable as possible, do you understand me?”

      “Yes, I…”

      “Then I shall speak with you later.”

Martin stared at his mobile and wondered if he had actually heard Carolyn Knapp-Shappey say something nice about him.

__________

      “Skip!  How did it go?  Was Mum angry with me?”

      “No, she wasn’t mad at you.  In fact she was very concerned.  Here, you should call her yourself, now.  I promise she won’t yell.”

      “Are you sure?”

      “I’m very sure.  Why don’t you go take the couch and get comfortable and I’ll keep Sherlock and Mycroft company?”

      “That’s a good idea, because if Mum forgets herself and does get a bit shouty, she can get _quite_ loud.”

Arthur went to the generic hospital sofa and belly flopped onto the cushions.  It didn’t take his cousins’ mental abilities to see that it was unlikely that Arthur would be getting off the sofa after his conversation with his mother.  His body was already losing its tension and grip on consciousness.  Carolyn would be lucky if he stayed awake to talk to her at all.

      “He is doing a remarkable job of maintaining his spirits.”

      “For the most part.  He’ll need… it’s a good thing Arthur likes to talk.”

      “I agree, I have already contacted your therapist and placed him on alert that Arthur will be requiring his services for a period of time.”

      “Good job, Mycroft.  I’m sure he appreciated being woken up from a sound sleep.”

      “He was, actually, because he is also concerned with your response to this event.”

      “He’s worried I’ll slip up.”

      “He is worried _you_ will worry about making poor choices, which will only add to your current level of anxiety.”

      “And that would negatively impact your ability to successfully provide the assistance that Arthur will require.”

      “Yeah, Sherlock… I got the connection.”

      “Good.  I shall see if there is any news on Lestrade and find Arthur a blanket.  He does seem to be slipping away quickly.”

Sherlock rose and walked softly over to Arthur, removing the phone from his hand, speaking briefly to Carolyn to explain why her son had become unresponsive and then stalked off to interrogate the already-irritated hospital staff.

      “Did he eat?”

Martin looked at the large bags of food sitting next to the bank of chair and picked through to draw out a carton that looked appealing.

      “A few bites.  I do not think his digestive system was prepared to be called to action quite yet.  Perhaps after his nap.”

      “Mycroft… he’ll be ok, right?”

      “I have full faith in Arthur’s ability to move past this occurrence with no lingering issues to plague him.”

      “Even if…”

Martin looked around for scissors to cut out his tongue so he never said anything to put that look on Mycroft’s face ever again.  Fortunately, it only lasted a split-second before his normal mask was put firmly back in place.

      “Mycroft, I’m so…”

      “With proper attention and care, young Arthur will overcome any obstacle placed in his path.  Of that I am quite confident.”

But who would provide proper attention and care for Mycroft?  Martin would have to speak with Sherlock and John about… contingencies.

      “Good.  Why don’t you grab a little rest yourself?  There’s another sofa and…”

      “That will not be necessary.  I am quite used to forsaking sleep for long periods of time.”

      “Ok, then… how about a shower?  Some fresh clothes?  I know there’s some for you in that package your driver dropped off.  Don’t you think it’d help you relax a little if you got out of those things?”

      “I appreciate your concern, Martin, however…”

      “Oh, I’m sorry.  Did I phrase that as a question?  My mistake.  Go get a shower, put on some clean clothes and I promise that if anyone brings news while you’re gone I’ll personally deliver it to you and not peek once at your assets.”

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at his cousin, then had to smirk at Martin’s attempt to mimic Sherlock’s well-practiced steely glare.

      “I surrender.  I shall return in a moment.”

Watching Mycroft take up a small bundle from the accumulating supply pile they were building, Martin rededicated himself to talking to Sherlock and John.  If Greg did not survive, they should all be there to provide support for Mycroft, even though he would insist and maybe even believe that he didn’t need it.

__________

The hours passed and it was only Mycroft’s influence that brought any information, all of which was that Lestrade was still in surgery and that John had formally scrubbed in to take a more active role in the proceedings, a fact with Sherlock was not sure counted as a good or bad change of circumstance.  Looking around the waiting room, he saw the same sight he’d seen for what seemed a week, Arthur getting much-needed sleep, wrapped in a pale blue hospital blanket, Martin stretched out on the second sofa, though he remained awake, an eye kept on Arthur alert for any sign of nightmare or other distress and Mycroft… simply sitting staring straight ahead, which Sherlock knew meant his brain was acting to a capacity where his physical self no longer had relevance.  It was a mode of function with which he was very familiar, though he did not currently have access to his _own_ sofa to indulge in the activity himself.  He had, therefore, to content himself with pacing through their private area, with occasional jaunts through the hospital, hoping to find some way to “accidentally” observe the surgery, for it was a deep-seated wish that one day he could observe John in _his_ element.  It would undoubtedly be a glorious experience.

As if he had been summoned by Sherlock’s daydreams, John entered the waiting room, looking as if he was a few steps away from crumpling onto the floor from fatigue and Sherlock instinctively jumped up and guided John to a chair, taking the one next to him and keeping hold of the smaller man’s hand.  Mycroft was on his feet immediately and stood looming over John as if he happened to hear displeasing news, he would swoop down like a bird of prey and shred the doctor into bite-sized pieces.

      “John, how is Gregory?”

      “Umm… he’s alive and that’s honestly better than I thought he’d be right now.  Bastard just refuses to let go.”

      “Gregory would not let something as simple as mortal injury curtail his stubbornness.”

      “You may be right about that.  He’s in recovery right now and they’ll be moving him to intensive care after that.”

      “What can you determine of his long-term prognosis?”

      “Right now, not a lot.  It’s very touch and go, at the moment.  We…”

John looked over to make sure Arthur was still sleeping.

      “…we lost him a couple of times on the table and… the damage was massive.  One bullet passed through, but the other hit bone and, well let’s just say did a good job of inflicting as much harm as it could.  If… the next 24 hours will tell us a lot.  But, assuming he pulls through, it’s going to be a long road back to fit and I can’t guarantee he’ll ever be 100% again.  With a lot of effort, he _could_ be cleared to get back to work, but it’s not time to even start thinking that far ahead.”

Mycroft relaxed a little for, though the news could not be termed _good_ , it could be termed _acceptable_ and that was sufficient for the time being.

      “In which room shall he be placed?”

      “Mycroft, you’re not allowed… oh god, who am I kidding.  I’ll find out and let you know, ok?  Just make sure to stay out the way and don’t go sending people to the Tower if they give you a dirty look for bothering them with questions when they’re trying to work.”

      “I would do nothing to compromise Gregory’s care.  Of course, if I observe it to be less than entirely competent… well, the Tower may no longer be in use, but we have many suitable alternatives available.”

      “Perfect.  Just perfect.”

      “Enough questions for now, Mycroft.  Lestrade has, as usual, exceeded expectations and now John must take time to care for himself.”

      “Sherlock, I…”

      “Of course, and you are correct that John should now be the beneficiary of focused attention.  I shall trust you to tend to that while I determine where Gregory will be moved and decide if it is fully appropriate.”

John opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock nodded towards his brother, lifted John to his feet and marched him towards the shower, remembering at the last moment to grab John’s bundle of fresh clothing and a bottle of water, which John immediately opened and began drinking as he was pushed along ahead of his partner.

      “It’s good news, Mycroft.  Of all the things John could have told us that was about at the top of my list of possibilities.”

      “It _is_ heartening.”

      “And, I don’t know Greg that well, but he seems like the type of man that won’t let this beat him.  Not for a minute.”

      “His strength of will _is_ formidable.  Now, shall you wake Arthur and tell him the news?  I do not believe he will thank us if we continue to let him sleep now that we have more definitive word.”

      “You’re right.  He’d be upset that we didn’t give him time to make Greg a big card or picture for his wall or something equally creative.”

      “Very good.  I will leave you to it.”

Mycroft departed, Martin was sure, to visit some further terror on the hospital administrator to ensure Greg got the best room in the facility, probably with a spare bed so that Mycroft could make the hospital his home for the duration.  Looking over towards Arthur, Martin was hesitant to cut short his much-needed sleep, but Arthur _would_ be upset to find he’d been kept out of the loop for so long.

      “Arthur?  Arthur, love.  Can you wake up for me?”

      “Skip?  Of course I can… I fell asleep?  Did I miss anything?”

      “We just got word from John that Greg is out of surgery and in recovery.  They’ll be moving him to his room soon.”

      “He… Greg’s ok?”

      “I wouldn’t go that far, but he had made it this far and that’s an encouraging sign.”

      “Can I see him?”

      “Not yet.  Maybe not for awhile, I’ll have to ask John.  But Mycroft’s going to be with him so he won’t be alone, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

      “I was… at least that’s part of what I was thinking.”

      “What was the rest of it?”

      “I just… I just need to see him.  See him… not like he was before.”

Needed to have an image in his head that wasn’t bloody and lifeless.

      “I tell you what, I bet that if I ask Mycroft, he can get you in to see Greg.  Maybe not for long, but you can at least say hello.  How does that sound?”

      “Brilliant!”

      “And I concur.  Of course Arthur shall have his chance to see Gregory and for as long as he desires it.  In fact, Gregory shall be brought to his room shortly, would you like to come and wait with me for his arrival, Arthur?”

      “Can I?  Really?  I’d love to.  Really, I would very much love to be there when Greg gets in his room and I can say ‘Welcome to Your Room, Greg!’ and see what he needs for decorations and make sure it’s comfy enough for him so yes!  I want to come with you!  Can Skip come, too?”

      “I would expect that he can visit at bit later, but I am under the impression that too many visitors might negatively impact the quality or alacrity of Gregory’s care at the moment.  Martin can take a turn after you, will that be acceptable?”

      “And then Mr. Sherlock?”

      “I do not see why that would be a problem.”

      “Ok then… I’ll go first and then they can visit after me.  But… you don’t mind if I visit for sort of a long time, do you Skip?  I mean, I’ll make sure you get your turn, but I may want to stay in there awhile.  If that’s ok with you, I mean.”

      “Stay as long as you want.   I’ve got Sherlock and John for company and I bet John wants to be the last one to check in on Greg and he could use his own bit of rest now, anyway.  So the longer you visit, the longer we’re here and John can catch his breath.”

      “Brilliant!  Can we go now, Mycroft?  I mean… ok, I just mean now.”

      “After you.”

      “Well, after you, actually.  I don’t know the way.”

__________

Mycroft watched Arthur rearrange the seating, plump the pillow on the bed,  fill the small pitcher on the bedside cabinet with water, check that the telly worked properly as did the controls for the bed and a myriad of other little actions that he felt would make the room more accommodating to Lestrade’s needs.  And Mycroft was glad for it.  The hospital administrator and head surgeon had foolishly suggested that Gregory be kept in some distasteful common ward with other intensive care patients, but Mycroft was having none of it.  His Gregory would be _here_ , with privacy and comfort and that would greatly facilitate his recovery.  That Arthur was taking matters in hand to make the room as homey as possible was its own brand of magic.  And, though it defied logic, Mycroft did believe that.  He believed that John in the surgery, Arthur in the room, and the others waiting close at hand would make a difference.  Perhaps it would not for someone like him, but for Gregory… it would be critical.  Of that Mycroft simply and unexplainably had no doubt.

A half an hour into Arthur’s prepping, the door swung open and an armada of hospital personnel moved in, surrounding a bed similar to the one in the room except this one held… Gregory.  Mycroft felt his hand taken and he squeezed firmly in return as he and Arthur looked in shock at the deathly pale man attached to a large assemblage of tubes and wires and machines… it was the work of several minutes to get Lestrade transferred to his new bed and even longer for each piece of paraphernalia to be checked and double checked before the doctors and nurses filed out, leaving Mycroft and Arthur still standing nearly frozen against the far wall.   Slowly Arthur stepped forward and reached out to touch Lestrade’s hand, but pulled back seeing the IV threaded into it.

      “Mycroft?”

      “I know, Arthur… I will admit to experiencing a similar feeling.”

Mycroft felt the need to sit down.  In truth it was more than a need, it was an imperative.  If he did not choose to sit, the decision would be made for him and the floor would be his target rather than a marginally-comfortable chair.  If possible, his Gregory appeared closer to death now than he did lying on the ground surrounded by his own blood.

      “He’ll… this is good, right?  I mean, they wouldn’t hook up all of these machines and things if he didn’t have a really good chance?  And he can breathe!  I’ve seen enough hospital programs to know that the tube in his mouth helps him breathe so that’s a good thing, isn’t it?  And that’s medicine in those bags on the poles, so that’s a plus… that’s true, right?”

Mycroft heard Arthur speaking, but only absorbed a fraction of his words.  His attention had little room for anything but the man looking small and grey in the large, white bed.

      “As long as he is with us, Arthur… we can consider the situation ‘good.’ “

      “Ok.  Ok.  And he knows we’re here, I’m sure of that.  He may not be able to show it, but he knows.  They say you should talk to people when they’re like this, too.  Even if they can’t hear everything you’re saying, they know you’re talking to them and that makes them feel happy and less alone.  So we don’t have to be quiet or anything, because Greg needs to know that we care about him and want him to get well soon.”

Mycroft found that his mind was a blank as how to fill the room with conversation.  At least not conversation that would be beneficial to promoting feelings of comfort and happiness.

      “I… I don’t know what to say to him.”

      “I think you do.”

      “That this is my fault?  That I have failed to safeguard his welfare?  That I have simply failed him?  In everything?  That…”

      “No… but I know what he wants to say to _you_ , if that helps.”

Mycroft turned his head upwards to look Arthur square in the eye.

      “He… what are you saying?”

      “Greg… before he… before he fell asleep, he told me that I had to tell you something and… well, I haven’t remembered about it all the time we’ve been here and when I have it hasn’t seemed right and…”

      “Please, Arthur.”

      “It was the last thing he said… and it was really, really hard for him to do it and he had to work very, very hard to get out any words at all… but he wanted me to make sure that you knew he loved you.”

      “He did?”

      “Uh huh.  He loves you, Mycroft.  And he used the very last bit of his air to make sure I knew so I could tell you.”

      “Ah…”

Arthur watched Mycroft’s face go slack and if something had drained away from him.  On instinct, he moved closer and drew Mycroft’s shoulders over to rest Mycroft’s head against his hip.

      “He _loves_ you, Mycroft.  Maybe that’s something that you can talk about and… tell _him_ something he really wants to hear, too.”

Arthur tightened his grip on the trembling shoulders he was holding and simply stood there quietly, not saying anything about any soft sounds he might be hearing or the wetness on his fingers as he stroked Mycroft’s cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on tumblr for short fics for Mystrade, Johnlock, Arthur/Martin and who knows what the hell else...
> 
> eventhorizon451.tumblr.com


	36. The Value of the Heart to Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so grateful for all of the support and encouragement for this story. Every comment and kudo is treasured...

Arthur sat with Mycroft for a very long time, silently shooing away any familiar faces that peered through the window in the door, until he felt that Mycroft was ready to interact with anyone besides the various nurses who filtered through without acknowledging the pair besides a quick nod of hello.  A cool cloth had soothed any traces of Mycroft’s small fracture and when he finally began to speak, Arthur felt the world begin to spin properly again on its axis.

      “It is becoming quite late, Arthur… it may be time for the others to take their opportunity to visit with Gregory before you escort them home for a good rest.”

      “I’m not leaving you here by yourself, Mycroft.  That’s not good and you’ll be very sad, I know you will and I won’t be here to tell you jokes and watch telly with you or do anything to make you feel better.”

      “My status, I believe, is stable for the moment, my boy… entirely, I assure you, due to your attentive ministrations.  Now, I must ask you to turn your skills to the others and tend to their well-being.  They are exhausted, both physically and emotionally and I fear that without a restorative measure of sleep and a large, home-prepared meal, they will not rebound with any degree of alacrity.  I am depending on you, Arthur.  Can you shoulder this responsibility?”

Arthur’s chest swelled with pride at his assignment and Mycroft stole what light he could from the young man’s growing smile.

      “I can!  Oh, this is… this is what I’m brilliant at!  Really!  I’ll make sure they rest and eat and maybe we can even play a little game or something to help them relax… but I’m not staying away from here for long.  You need someone here, too, to take care of you and since Greg can’t do that right now because he’s… well, he’s asleep… then I’m going to do it.  So I’ll be back as soon as I know that Skip and Doctor Watson and Mr. Sherlock are ok.  Oh… I don’t have my car though…”

      “It is waiting for you at your residence.”

      “You’re the best, Mycroft!  That way I can come back here even if everyone else is still sleeping and check on how you’re doing.  I mean, Mum’s house isn’t far and I can… brilliant!  I can be like Skip delivering things here and bringing things back if you want and I can be a cabbie, too, and bring people here so they don’t have to drive, especially if they think they might be a bit weepy after visiting with Greg, which I sort of feel like, too, but I won’t feel as weepy when I’m helping the others, so that’s the most wonderful idea ever!”

      “I trust that you will make whatever decisions you feel are best.  Now, I believe you should establish a queue for visitation.  I shall keep a vigilant watch on Gregory’s condition.”

      “Ok… I’ll be back in one minute.”

Mycroft knew that if had monitored the time for Arthur to leave and return it would not differ substantially from sixty seconds.  The first person Arthur ushered through the door was Martin, likely by Martin’s own demand so he could reconnect with his partner after being out of his sight for an extended period.  Mycroft wondered how long it would be before Martin _did_ let Arthur out of his sight again.  He watched his cousin take in the full picture of Lestrade’s condition and turn to take Arthur in a fierce embrace for, as Mycroft was certain, had things gone slightly differently, it could be Arthur lying in an adjacent bed.  Or worse.  Not that his Gregory would ever have allowed such a thing…  Mycroft listened as Martin asked him a few perfunctory questions, and responded with polite and placid answers and knew that every word was being scrutinized by someone who did share _some_ of his genetic code and could see further beneath the surface of his phrases than the average individual.  What intrigued Mycroft was that Martin, before he made his exit, leaned over and whispered into Gregory’s ear, gently patting his arm before he stood straight again and left, promising to send in Sherlock as the next car on the train.

Mycroft knew how deeply Sherlock cared for his Gregory, although the boy would rather lose the entirety of his teeth one by one rather than admit it openly and it pained Mycroft to consider if Gregory had an inkling of the depths of Sherlock’s feelings.  If he could only see the heavy shine in Sherlock’s eyes as he stared at the figure in the hospital bed, he would know fully how powerfully he had impacted the young detective’s life.  Gregory would greatly appreciate that…

      “There has been no change?”

      “No, however I am to understand that is not to be considered a negative portent.”

      “That he is alive, according to John, is sufficient to be considered a miracle.”

      “So I have been informed, also.  But Gregory would not place his faith in something as unsubstantial as a miracle.  This is a product of his own will and drive.  He is a valorous man, with a strength of purpose that is unparalleled.  A lesser man would have succumbed, but not one of Gregory’s caliber.”

      “Agreed.  You do plan to move him to London as soon as possible?”

Mycroft saw Arthur’s eyes widen sharply and decided a discussion of Gregory’s future care was best left until a later time.

      “I shall consult with the relevant medical professionals before making any decisions.  A hasty decision at this point is most ill-advised.”

      “Then I shall inform John that we may be in Fitton for an extended period.  I will not leave Lestrade unattended so the local quackery can begin harvesting his organs.  You have a residence on reserve, am I correct?”

      “Of course, I shall dismiss Charles and you and John may take occupancy immediately.”

Again, Arthur’s alarmed expression prompted Mycroft to modify his communication.

      “And by immediately, of course, I mean after an appropriate amount of time and the return of Mrs. Knapp-Shappey.  I am certain Arthur and Martin will be happy for the companionship in this dark time.”

Sherlock had a reply staged on his tongue, but also caught sight of Arthur and quickly swallowed his words.

      “That will be satisfactory.  John is waiting to assess Lestrade’s condition so I shall take my leave.  Arthur, I expect that you will not linger after John departs.  He is anxious to see you returned home… as am I.”

Mycroft had to admit that Sherlock’s coat did provide his brother with the swirling trappings of a dramatic exit.  And as soon as Sherlock’s feet crossed the threshold, John was barreling in, not unjustifiably worried that Sherlock had upended the peaceful apple cart and left the room in some degree of chaos.  A quick glance at the monitors and an examination of a host of details surrounding his Gregory’s physical comfort and well-being had John giving a sharp nod and lifting a shaky smile onto his lips.

      “Well, I can say he’s not dropped any further into the pit.  That’s… well, it’s something.  Now, did I understand right, Arthur is coming back with us and, Mycroft, you’re staying here?”

      “I am quite prepared to maintain my vigil, John.  Have no concern about my well-being.”

      “I’m sorry, Mycroft, but Greg’s my patient now and, by extension, so are you.  If I feel that you are unduly stressing yourself, I have no moral problem giving you a needle-full of something pleasant so you get to relax.  Understand me?”

Was that concern he heard in John’s voice?  How interesting, given their current state of animosity, at least from John’s perspective.

      “I will defer to your opinion when the time comes; however, that time is not now.  Do you… is there any indication when Gregory might waken?”

John rubbed the back of his neck and considered his words carefully.

      “I wish I could give you something definitive, but I can’t.  We'll keep him sedated so that he can heal without disturbance and when we start to dial them back, it could be hours, it could be days, it could be… longer.  He’ll come back to us when he’s ready and not a minute sooner.”

      “I have full confidence that Gregory will choose the proper moment to revisit the waking world and I shall endeavor to be patient.”

      “Good.  Patience is good.  Arthur… are you ready?  We’re set to leave as soon as you say your goodbyes.”

      “Oh!  I… I guess I am… I mean… so soon?  I thought that you and Skip and Mr. Sherlock would visit longer and I could be here and…”

John had no trouble deciphering Mycroft’s cocked eyebrow and walked over to take Arthur by the arm.

      “Going home for a little while doesn’t mean you’re abandoning your post.  Mycroft is covering things and as soon as you get some of the cobwebs out of your head, you can be right back here keeping Mycroft and Greg company.  I promise, Arthur… no one is going to try and make you stay home when you want to come back.  Now, as a doctor, I’m telling you that you need to get some more sleep to keep yourself healthy and that’s what you’re getting as soon as we’re back.  Mycroft… I’ve been linked into the hospital’s emergency notification system as a member of Greg’s team, so they’ll ring me the second anything changes.  But… call me at any point if you have a question or if you notice something that bothers you.  Sometimes the signs of a problem creep up slowly and you could catch them before the monitors do.  Don’t hesitate… I mean that.”

Mycroft’s observations screamed that John had a great deal more he wanted to say, but none of it was quite ready to be given form.  However… he could predict it to a high degree of certainty and… it helped.  Perhaps, at least for this one, most-important thing, he had regained John’s support.

      “I shall not hesitate a moment, John.  Thank you.  Arthur, I look forward to your return, after you have reinvigorated.”

      “I don’t know what that means but I’ll make sure whatever it is that’s what I am!”

      “John will let you know when you have been cleared to visit.”

      “Absolutely, so the quicker we get back to your Mum’s, the faster you can get back here.”

      “Ok then… let’s go.  Bye Mycroft!  Bye Greg!  And you can call me, too.  I’m going to keep my phone by my bed so there’s no way I can’t hear it ring.  I’ll see you soon!”

As Arthur said his goodbye, John was slowly guiding him towards the door and finally Mycroft was alone in the room.  A room that was filled by the thunderous noise of beeps and chirps and clacks and the incessant drone of Gregory’s ventilator… and Mycroft felt it was the most silent room in which he had ever sat.  Perhaps it was a mistake to dismiss Arthur to return home because he suddenly felt the loss of the younger man sharply.  Arthur… the only one besides Gregory who saw beneath his façade and with whom he felt safe to expose his deeper self for examination, for his vulnerability would never be rewarded with a dagger.  And it made what he was going to say far easier…

      “It has been a quite a day, my dear.  You are fortunate that you are getting some rest… did you hear the difficulty that I endured convincing Arthur to follow your example?  He is a treasure, a true treasure far beyond that of gold or gems… much as I view you.  I am quite aware that you have come to find a faith in me that I do not deserve, but I cannot say your beliefs were unfounded in that I do… you are the one who holds my heart, my dearest.   I cannot provide you with the precise date or time that the seal was laid upon my soul, but it burns like a brand and I draw strength from its heat every day.  It is nothing that I expected in this lifetime, but I am now dependent on that well of warmth that you have given to me and keep filled with your smile and your laugh… your quick mind and dedication to the things and people that you value…”

      “Do you remember the first time we saw each other?  I cannot say it was the first time we met because we spoke not a word, but it was impactful nonetheless.  Sherlock had, I believe, stumbled onto one of your crime scenes, highly altered by whatever was his preference was that day.  You quite rightly took him in to custody, as much for his drugs issue as the likelihood of his complicity in your little murder, since his statements about the crime rang too true.  I remember well presenting myself to take charge of him and hearing a door slam open, a man’s voice echoing through the halls, and you… storming out of the room and stalking past me with anger darkening your face and furrowing your brow.  But… it was what I heard as you walked by that stayed with me… you muttered ‘so much potential.’  You saw my brother, in his drugged and arrogant glory, and realized that he was more than what his surface presented.  That he had worth and could offer so much, if only he would make that choice.”

“And _he_ knew, as well.  Sherlock will likely never confess to you his true emotions, but that night you did something that few have ever done… you made an impression on him.  I knew with perfect clarity your impact as he rode with me back to the hovel in which he was choosing to live.  It was the first time, the first of many I believe, that he absconded with your police identification.  Many would consider it disrespectful, but, in truth, that was not the case.  When Sherlock was a boy and felt lonely, frightened or unsure, he would often steal from my room some item of importance that would impel me to track his location for a confrontation.  Do you see?  He needed, but could not voice the need, so he took action to secure my attention.  Even if we did not speak of his troubles, I was _there_ and he was not alone.  So in my vehicle he sat, twiddling you identification in his fingers and how much time passed before you descended on him to retrieve your property?  And stayed to chastise him, perhaps to lecture him about his lifestyle, to warn him about his possible future if his ways did not change?  You demonstrated concern.  You said, to him, that he was worthwhile.  I am sure he repaid you with acid, for that is his nature, but that does not change what your words and actions meant to him.”

 “Do not think, either, that he took for granted your attentions.  The times you visited on one pretense or another.  Searching the streets for him when you learned he had not been present in his flat for days.  Studying his habits so you could enter his domicile when he was absent to search for dangerous substances or objects and… he knew where from came the extra food and bedding, Gregory.  What he did not know was that you checked his taps for hot water and the radiator for heat.  These things I know because, of course, I kept eyes on him during that period, though he violently fought my interventions at every turn.  He did not, however, rage against yours.  And I rejoiced for it.  You are among a rarified group, Gregory… those whom Sherlock permitted past his barricades and into a position where you had influence upon him.  I likely should not divulge the number of times my brother made clandestine visits to your own home, searching for information to help him understand you and your motives, but I shall say they were numerous and leave it at that.  He visited over and over again, seeking, I am sure, some key piece of evidence that would provide a concrete and selfish reason for your regard.  That he never found one is why he allowed you to ‘catch’ him during one of his visits.  Ultimately, he felt safe.  He would test your anger, but with the knowledge that it would not destroy the connection that he had let settle between you.  And you cooked for him that night, didn’t you, my dear… The first meal of many to come.  You have been my brother’s savior, as surely as has John, but you have received no reward other than the satisfaction of seeing your son thrive and grow closer to the man you know he can be.”

      “In fact, you have received reward for _none_ of your contributions to our family, and I use the word ‘our’ in the sense I feel you hope for most greatly.  Yours and mine.  Our family, my dearest… and how large it has grown!  How significant a change to my life and one… I am enamored of it, Gregory.  I am consumed by the satisfaction of having the ties of a family fastened around me and the joy of finding you similarly entwined.  Such a shift in our dynamic… one I surely never predicted.  You frightened me at first, I must confess… those early day as we felt out what possibilities might lie between us.  I saw your desires and they unnerved me greatly.  I felt I was not acceptable for you.  That I had nothing of substance to offer.  In truth, I felt that I was not and would never be fit for a true relationship with another human being, but you fought against my resistance, didn’t you?  You battled both your own doubts and mine and refused to accept defeat.  Even… even when I showed you the worst of who I am.  You know it now, Gregory… you know as no other the worst within my soul.  The ugliness and lack of control… you have known the harm I can do by my actions and choices to the one I adore beyond comprehension and I grieve terribly for your suffering.  I grieve that my actions and inactions have brought you to this state.  That my weakness, stupidity and blindness has torn from you so much of your vigor.”

 “These past days… you knew as I did what we could have if I was a better man.  I am unclear as to your suspicions, my love, but even vague and insubstantial, they were correct.  There was an agenda, a game… but, my devotion to you has not wavered, though I was forced to make decisions that threw that devotion into suspicion.  I assure you most fervently, my dear… it did _not_ waver.  It was my hope, my intent, that at the end point of my playacting I would be again with you, not as a friend, but as so much more.  As what we have been of late.  I want that with you, my dearest, dearest Gregory… I want you with me, surrounded by our family.  I want you in my bed wrapped in my arms.  I want to come home, whether it be after a tiresome day or a protracted absence and find you there.  I want all of this with you my dearest because… I love you.  Desperately and consumingly.  I love you as I never have another and… I know you reciprocate that love in full.  This is why you must continue to fight, my dear.  We must be allowed to rejoice in our affection.  I must be able to say these words while looking into your beautiful, beautiful eyes.  We must be together when young Arthur is able to finally to take Martin as his husband and as Sherlock continues to grow into his life with John.  I am sorry, Gregory, but you are simply not permitted to sleep through these things.  I extracted a promise from you, one for patience, and I return the promise in kind.  _I_ will be patient.  I will wait for you and allow you to enjoy your rest as long as you feel it necessary.   Be assured that when you choose to wake, I will be here for you… and will not again leave.  I will be _here_ for you.  To see you well and bring you home.  To our home.  Where you and I both know you belong.”

      “So, continue to sleep and heal and dream what I hope are pleasant dreams, my dearest Gregory.  I shall be right here, waiting for you to share those dreams and if you need me, you have simply to ask and all I am shall be yours.”

__________

The drive from the hospital was quiet as was the separation of pairs when the group entered Arthur’s home.  The adrenaline level in each tired body was plummeting and the combined stresses were eroding each man’s strength.  Martin gave a nod towards John and Sherlock and shepherded Arthur to his bedroom.

      “Skip, I…”

      “Whatever you think or feel right now, love… you just need to put it aside and get some rest.”

      “I know… but my brain doesn’t want to shut off and if it doesn’t, how can I possibly go to sleep?  I mean, it’s one thing when it’s swimmy and I’m dreaming and I get to watch a film in my head while I sleep, which is brilliant, but I have to be asleep first and I’m not asleep now, so my swimmy brain is just making me want to play a game or clean the kitchen or make a new outfit for Mr. Sherlock’s photograph or work on my picture albums or…”

Martin placed his hand gently over Arthur’s mouth and looked him in the eye until Arthur nodded and Martin lowered his hand.  With both hands, he worked on removing Arthur’s clothes and getting him into his pajamas, motioning him towards the bed, while he did the same for himself.  Martin took, for once, the position behind Arthur and did his best to be the ‘big’ to Arthur’s ‘little’ spoon.

      “You just rest, Arthur.  I’m going to be right here, making sure everything is ok.  There’s nothing to worry about right now and nothing you can do to make anything better or worse, so just… rest.  The better you take care of yourself, the better you can take care of the rest of us and I know that’s very important to you, right?”

      “It is!  I just… I’m not sure I’m doing a very good job anymore…”

Time… Mycroft said it would take time for Arthur to heal his own wounds.  Time and support and every chance to talk and process his experience and Martin was committed to being there for all of it.

      “You _are_ , Arthur.  You are doing a better job than any of us could ever possibly do.  The thing with Greg… that wasn’t your fault.  You didn’t cause it and you couldn’t have stopped it.  I know you feel like you could have done something, but you couldn’t have.  Both Sherlock and Mycroft said so and you know they just aren’t wrong about things like that.  And it was you that made the difference between life and death for Greg.  _You_ , love.  And you know he thinks you’re great at taking care of people and that you’re all-around brilliant and wonderful, right?  Greg would not be happy if he thought you weren’t taking care of yourself and you don’t want that, so get some real rest and we can talk about things again in the morning.  I’ll help you cook and then, if you want, you can go back to the hospital.  Ok?”

      “Ok.  I’ll do my best.”

      “That’s all I ever ask.  I love you, Arthur.”

      “I love you too, Skip.  Can you…”

      “What?”

      “Can you… I know you don’t like to do it a lot, but could you sing like you do sometimes.  I really, really like it when you sing and I think if you did that… I would feel better.”

      “As long as you want me to, Arthur.  Now just relax and let me serenade you…”

__________

      “John, you are not in bed.  I do not find this acceptable.”

      “What?  Oh… just checking my phone.”

      “I give you my strongest assurance that if you are needed, you will not miss the notification.”

Sherlock had propped himself against the headboard of their bed and watched his partner nervously check his phone, empty his pockets, check his phone again before removing his shoes and once more before removing his socks.  Another check followed the shedding of his shirt and trousers and a last one occurred before he lay the device on the bedside table and took his place in the bed next to his partner.

      “You are being irrational.”

      “I’m showing concern.”

      “What is your true concern, John?  You are well apprised of Lestrade’s medical situation, so that cannot be fueling your discontent.”

      “Sherlock… I don’t think you understand what is Greg’s ‘medical situation.’  The odds aren’t great he even makes it through the night.  New instances of internal bleeding, the stress on his heart, the stress on fucking EVERYTHING…  let me assure you, I am more expecting a call that he coded than I’m expecting to see him still hanging on tomorrow.  And…”

Sherlock pushed down his own intense worry to concentrate on John, but… he had _hoped_ Lestrade would have been in a better place by now than on Death’s doorstep.

      “What, John?  Talk to me.”

      “He could die at any moment and the last words I said to him…”

Sherlock slid down and pulled John tightly against him.

      “I was horrid to him, Sherlock.  Maybe for what I thought was a good reason, but it doesn’t change the fact that I was a complete prick to him and that could be his final memory of me.  All that crap I yelled at him… I don’t want those to be the last words of mine he takes with him to the grave.  He could die thinking I’ve broken our friendship and…”

Sherlock lay a long and gentle kiss on John’s neck and stroked the warm skin along his side.

      “Lestrade is not so foolish as to take to heart words said in anger.  He would not believe that you meant him ill will.”

      “He’s my friend, Sherlock!  He’s my friend and I…”

      “You hoped to help him.  There is no shame in that.”

      “Then why do I feel like I failed him?”

      “Because you are a good man.  But, I assure you that Lestrade will not hold you in contempt when he wakes.  And he _will_ wake, John.  Of this I am certain.”

      “Really?  How?  Have a psychic connection to the big man upstairs?”

      “If you are referring to a deity, then no.  I simply… I simply feel it.  I believe with a high level of certainty that if Lestrade was truly on the verge of expiration, I would know.”

      “That is… completely illogical.”

      “I cannot refute your statement.  Though I dearly wish I could.”

      “Got a gut feeling, huh?  Ok.  Good enough for me.”

Sherlock froze and rolled John slightly to view his face plainly and gather all possible data.

      “You would take my word, built as it is on insubstantial ground?”

      “More than ever.  If you, Sherlock Holmes, are having a gut reaction… yeah, I’m going to believe it one-hundred percent.”

      “Oh… well, that is gratifying.  Will this enable you to rest?”

      “In a bit, yes.  Give me a chance to unwind first, ok?”

      “That is acceptable.  Will you require assistance?”

      “Are you offering?”

      “Always.”

      “Then I gladly accept.  And Sherlock… take it easy on me, I’ve had a bitch of a day.”


	37. The Settling of Accounts Begins Close to Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel so blessed for all of the wonderful comments I have received for this story. Thank you all for taking the time to encourage me!

      “Good heavens, Arthur!  Is there a reason you are still in your pajamas?”

      “Yes, there is.”

      “And would you care to share that reason?”

      “Oh!  Well, when I got up this morning, I thought about how long it would take to do all of the things I do to get clean and dressed and that would be time I wouldn’t be here, so I didn’t do any of those things and just drove here in my pajamas.  But don’t worry, I brought all my things in my travel bag and… I’ll just be a minute… oh and Hi Greg!  Did you have a good night?  I’ll talk to you about it in a moment, after I get my clothes on.”

Arthur nearly danced his way into the private bath in Lestrade’s room, leaving Mycroft shaking his head and wondering how so much of the world’s goodness could be held by one single man.  And, of course, Gregory spent had a good night.  As far as Arthur was concerned, Gregory will have had a wonderful, restful night.  He would never know that the heart monitor in the room made a terrifying sound three hours and sixteen minutes after he had left and it was the work of several minutes by a large team of grim-faced doctors and nurses to bring his Gregory back for another chance at life.  Mycroft knew, with no degree of doubt that as long as he lived, the sound of a shrill, uninterrupted tone would haunt his darkest dreams.

Fortunately, he had prevented John from being alerted once Gregory’s condition had been stabilized.  There was no reason the good doctor should lose much-needed rest when the crisis had already passed.  Or Sherlock or Martin or Arthur… they should enjoy whatever amenities they could secure after the events of the past… how long _had_ it been?  In truth, Mycroft had lost his sense of time.  Normally, his internal clock worked with Swiss-precision; however, it had obviously suffered some form of disaster in its gearing so it no longer functioned.  And with no routine or distraction from his work, he had lost the structure to his days.  Mycroft had sent notice that, barring the outbreak of another world war, he was not to be disturbed until further notice, which likely sent tidal waves through certain sectors, but would be obeyed nonetheless.  He could not allow himself the luxury of privacy for long, but… he could allow it for now, so that all of his attention could remain with his Gregory.

      “Hi Mycroft!  Hi Greg!  I’m back!  And look… I put a lot of other things in my travel bag that I knew Greg would like and make him feel better.  John said it was all alright to have here, even Mr. Snowball, so I’ll put him right here on this table… there.  And I brought lots of pictures and my phone with all my songs and look!  Skip gave me this little speaker that plugs right in there and then everyone can hear my phone even better than normal and we can listen to my songs or watch a show if this telly doesn’t get what my telly-phone gets.  Oh!  And I also brought my paper and pens and pencils and markers so that I can draw new pictures and… this!  This is brilliant!  See, you stick it to the window and hurray!  Rainbows on the walls!  Happy colorful rainbows and that’s got you make you feel better, Greg.  I mean, who doesn’t feel better when they see a rainbow and you have lots to see now, even though you can’t actually see them, but it’s nearly as good!  Right, Mycroft?”

      “Unquestionably.  In fact, I am already experiencing the mood-elevating effects of your multitude of rainbows.”

      “Brilliant!  Oh, and I brought breakfast pie.  Actually, it’s just normal pie but you eat it for breakfast.  Do you want some?”

      “I think I will decline for the moment.  However, do partake if you are so inclined.”

      “Thanks!  I made sure that the rest of the chaps had breakfast ready to go before I left, but I didn’t sit for any myself.  Oh, and Doctor Watson is going to come by a little later and check on Greg.  Sherlock and Skip are coming, too, but a little after that, since they’re both being a bit lazy today and Mr. Sherlock said he had a few things he wanted to do and Skip said he’d clean up from breakfast for me and start some laundry.  Oh!  And Mr. Sherlock said maybe we could all sit with Greg for a little while, so he felt like we were all together like we were at Mum’s house.  Isn’t that brilliant!”

      “Arthur, are you certain that was Sherlock’s idea?”

      “Well, maybe it was a little bit of mine, too, but Mr. Sherlock said it was a _good_ idea so that’s why I’m giving him the credit.”

      “You are very generous.  Now, what would you like to do while we wait?”

      “Actually, I thought Greg might like a film.  One of those that he really likes, so he’ll really, really enjoy himself.  Do you know of one?”

      “I rather think I do.  May I have your mobile?”

Mycroft tapped a few buttons, input a little information and tapped a final time before handing it back to Arthur.  A few more taps and a touch of the remote on Lestrade’s bedside table and the film began to play on the wall-mounted television on the opposite wall.

      “ _His Girl Friday_?  I haven’t heard of this one.”

      “Gregory enjoys it greatly and I believe you will, as well.”

      “Well, I’m game for anything!  And we can watch one you want to see next so make sure to think of something.  Greg!  You pay attention to your film and just relax so you can get better faster and wake up.  Oh, this does look like fun!”

Mycroft settled back in his chair and let his attention wander back towards the man in the hospital bed.  Perhaps Arthur was right.  Maybe somewhere inside of himself Gregory was also settling back, with a large smile on his face, to relax and simply let his body tend to the business of healing.  Mycroft gave his Gregory a small smile and gentle pat on his thigh, leaving his hand to rest on the blanket-covered leg to stroke it absently as they indulged in their time together…

__________ 

If laughter was the best medicine, Mycroft was sure that his Gregory was being given a hearty dose by the peals of Arthur’s giggles that rang out in the room.  And Arthur seemed to be not in the least bothered by the fact that the Detective Inspector could neither hear nor answer him and happily included the man in their conversation as an equal participant, providing both the questions and the answers as needed to keep Lestrade part of their little social circle.  It was perfectly clear that Arthur not only expected Lestrade to waken, but to step directly back into his role in their blended family.  It was, therefore, not surprising that Arthur took steps to ensure his thinking was built on a solid foundation the moment the film was finished.

      “Mycroft… can I ask you a question?”

      “Of course, Arthur.  I cannot promise that I can supply an answer, however.”

      “Oh… well, I guess that makes since with all of the ruling-of-London you have to do.  This one doesn’t involve any of that.  It’s just… you know and I know that you never wanted to do anything bad to Greg and I’m pretty sure he knows that and that you want to be boyfriends with him and that’s why he told me to say to you what I said and… so are you?”

      “Am I what, Arthur?”

      “Going to be his boyfriend now?  I mean…you can’t really keep on with that… _him_ … anymore, can you?  I know you’re very good at acting, Mycroft, but I can’t believe that you could do a good enough job for him to think that you’re still _his_ boyfriend.  Not anymore.  Not after _this_.  And that would mean you’d be free to be Greg’s boyfriend, which is what you both want anyway, so I can’t see why you wouldn’t do it, but… so are you?”

Arthur had the uncanny ability to walk directly past the details and straight to the simple truth of a situation.  There was still much undone and too many matters of importance to settle, however… Mycroft could no more walk away from the man lying quietly by his side than he could swallow glass.  In fact, if he tried, the result would be much the same.  Whether Gregory would stand for his presence once he woke and had time to reflect on what had happened to him and Mycroft’s own role in the situation… that was left to be seen but, Mycroft had to hold onto the hope that his Gregory would embrace what he was prepared and willing to offer.  A life, home and family to share.  He would place his heart in his hands and hope that Gregory would take it up and add it to his own.

      “It… It is my desire that Gregory will allow me to occupy a permanent role in his life beyond that of a friend.”

      “So… that means yes?”

      “That means yes.”

      “Hurrah!  Greg, do you hear that?  Mycroft’s going to be your boyfriend!  And you’ll get to do boyfriend things with him and come visit every time Mycroft visits and when we visit London we’ll get to see you both at the same time and do boyfriend things as couples and it’s going to be brilliant!  And, not that I’m giving you any advice or anything, but Mycroft does have a _very_ nice house and you’re always saying how small your flat is and… again, I’m _not_ giving you any advice, but you might think about when Mycroft asks you if you want to come and stay with him that saying _yes_ would be a brilliant idea.”

Despite everything, Mycroft could not stop himself from laughing.  Even in his unconscious state, Gregory had to have been absorbing Arthur’s enthusiasm and, perhaps, reflecting on what Arthur had to say.  Though the point would be moot for a long time because Gregory Lestrade _would_ be a houseguest in Mycroft’s home for a very extended period, while he recovered.  Mycroft would never permit the man to stay in a sterile hospital one second more than necessary and he certainly was not going to permit the Detective Inspector to be alone in his flat even with the army of attendants Mycroft could provide.  He would end his hospital stay and return to a large and comfortable residence, where Mycroft could keep close watch on his progress and where there was an absolute certainty that recovery would proceed in a safe and uninterrupted fashion.

      “I believe he will give your words due consideration, Arthur.  You were quite emphatic and I have no doubt that will make an impression.”

      “I hope so!  You two look so cute when we have film night and you’re together dancing and laughing and I just think it should be that way all the time.  And Greg can cook in your amazing kitchen!  That would make me _very_ happy.  I hate to think about all those lovely things not getting used, I mean I’m sure someone uses them, but not like Greg would use them and then when I visit he and I can cook together like we did at Mum’s and he could pack you lunches, too, because I know you work a lot and probably could use a good lunch that someone made for you.”

      “That would be quite the blessing.  Let us see how Gregory feels about that once he is _ready_ to perform his wonders in my kitchen, however.”

      “He’ll want to, you just need to believe me on that.  Those of us with skills in the kitchen love to pack lunches and make breakfasts and dinners and in-betweens.  Oh, this is going to be wonderful!  Greg and I can share recipes and have our radio breakfasts and watch our matches on the telly, but you can be there too and AHHH IT’S ALL TOO BRILLIANT TO HANDLE!”

      “Arthur, Greg is going to wake up just to tell you hold it down.  Now, just what is going on in here?”

      “Doctor Watson!  We’re talking about…”

Arthur’s bullet train of thought crashed into a wall and he shot a look over to Mycroft, who drew in a deep breath and nodded for him to keep going.

      “We’re talking about Mycroft and Greg being boyfriends and how wonderful it’s going to be when Greg moves in, which he _is_ going to do I just know it and then everyone is going to be boyfriends and… oh dear, I think I feel another little shout coming on.”

      “Well, I tell you what.  Why don’t you go and see if you can ask one of the nurses if there’s a good place to have a little shout and while you’re at it, see if you can find me a cup of tea.  That’ll give me time to examine Greg and check a few things that might… well, they might upset you a bit.”

      “Oh… ok!  I can do that.  I’ll find a nice spot and shout and dance and get all of that out of my system so I can stay quiet as a mouse for Greg while he sleeps and I’ll find you the best cup of tea I can, even if I have to drive home and make it myself.  Be right back… Bye Mycroft!  Bye Greg!”

Mycroft watched Arthur launch himself out the door and knew that when he turned back to John the man’s gentle smile would be long gone.

      “Now, do you want to tell me what that was all about?”

      “Nothing beyond what it appeared, I assure you.”

      “Well, what it appeared to be was pretty fucking distressing.”

      “I do not doubt that, from your perspective, it was not the news of glad tidings.”

John rubbed his neck and stared at Mycroft, finally taking the seat that Arthur had vacated.

      “Look, Mycroft… I can tell that you still care for Greg and I know that he has feelings for you, but I can’t support you two getting together again.  It’s not good for him and he’s going to need people he can count on to have any hope of making a full recovery.  That’s if we can even get him out of the hospital in one piece.  And do NOT instruct them to avoid calling me about his condition ever again.  I get it… you probably thought sleep was more important than me coming back here if he’d already been stabilized, but… I need to come in and check things out for myself.”

      “I apologize, John.  I will remember that for the future.  However, I think you are operating under the mistaken belief that I cannot be counted upon to provide the aide and assistance Gregory will require.  It is my _full_ intention to do so.  He will receive all of the support I can deliver, both physically and emotionally, and that I will state on my word on honor that he shall lack for nothing in my care.”

      “Your care?”

      “As soon as it is feasible, you desire to move him to London, yes?  Well, upon release from the facility in which we place him, he shall be returned to my home for the duration of his recovery.”

      “Now wait a minute…”

      “What would you have me do, John?  Allow him to stay in his bachelor flat?  Even with hired assistance, that is not the best environment for him to recuperate.”

      “I’d thought that maybe… we do have the extra room now, if I move Sherlock’s spell-casting equipment back out.”

      “ _Your_ flat?  Whereas I am fully confident you have the best intentions, Gregory cannot be sequestered in the flat with Sherlock.  While I am actually quite certain he _will_ try his best to be agreeable, you should foresee, as do I, that this will not provide the restful situation that Gregory will require.  I can offer the appropriate surroundings, access to any support staff you deem necessary, the benefit of pleasant company… and I do not refer solely to myself but also to young Arthur with whom I share a video conferencing arrangement.  Surely you would not deny Gregory the best possible scenario to facilitate his recovery?  And you are quite right… I do care deeply for him, as he does for me and that can only assist with the comfort and encouragement I am committed to providing him.”

      “That might be going a little far…”

      “He loves me, John.  Said with his last breath to Arthur, so please do not attempt to interpret his words as anything but the truth.  And… he owns my love, as well.  I understand your suspicions, John.  I understand them and I am actually grateful that Gregory has a friend that is so demonstrably protective of his well-being.  But there is nothing for which you should bare your teeth any longer.  Truly, there never was, though you were perfectly justified in believing otherwise.”      

      “Greg said he loved you?”

      “You are free to verify the veracity of my statement with Arthur.”

      “Ok… and you say you feel the same way about him?”

      “I do.  It is my most fervent wish that I be able to tell him that very thing when he is conscious of his surroundings.”

      “Then why?  Why in the HELL did you betray him!  I’m sorry, Mycroft, but you don’t screw around on someone you supposedly care about.”

      “You do if it is necessary.”

      “I’m going to believe that you’re going to explain that and your explanation isn’t going to be one that’s going to make me want to punch you in the face.”

      “I cannot guarantee the latter, but I promised Sherlock that you would receive honesty.  I do intend to make good on that promise, if you will permit the opportunity.”

      “Go ahead.  I’m listening.”

And Mycroft let flow the entire story of his association with Edgar, his plans, his successes and failures, the thread of attraction and affection that never completely severed and which both he and Lestrade had been slowly repairing over the past weeks.  He spoke of Lestrade’s own suspicions and his mission to understand better the impressions he was forming.  And he spoke of the last few days, when he realized the extent of Lestrade’s suspicions and that he was committed to waiting until the relationship they both wanted could come to pass.  And of the role Edgar had played in bring Lestrade to this sad and dangerous state.  John sat quietly soaking in the information and when Mycroft was finished, he simply turned and stared at his friend, so still and quiet in his bed, and only after several minutes could he address Mycroft directly.

      “Why didn’t you just tell him?  You could have… you SHOULD HAVE TOLD HIM!”

      “It was not an option, John.  At least not one I believed I could afford to pursue.  The stakes were far too high to have regard for either Gregory’s or my personal happiness.”

      “He’s a professional, Mycroft…”     

      “He is also a man.  It is not always possible to divorce one from the other.  I could not take the chance that any of his actions compromise my agenda and… and far more importantly, I could not stand to make him suffer.  Suffer and leave me so he would have to suffer no more.  Truly, John… I had hoped he would never know of my degradation.  There was never an intention to subject him to the humiliation of a cuckold.  I have cared for him too deeply and for far too long for that to have ever been my intention.”

      “You’re the most stupid man I’ve ever met.  No… I’d have to think about it to figure out if you or Sherlock gets the prize for being too stupid to come up with solutions to your problems that actually make any sense!  You tore him to pieces, Mycroft.  Little tiny pieces that I was barely able to collect without any escaping for good.  If you… I swear this to you and believe me I will make good on my word that if you ever, _ever_ , hurt him from this point forward, you won’t have a chance to hurt him or anyone else ever again.  All your security, all your protection, wealth, power, superhuman omniscience or whatever else the fuck you have going for you will NOT be enough to save you.”

      “I am confident you will make your promise a reality in the event of my failure and I accept that responsibility.”

      “Good.  Glad we understand each other.”

      “Then… may I count on you to view me as an ally, at least for the area of Gregory’s care?”

      “Yeah.  If I’m honest, I can’t think of any situation that would be better for him than having your backing as he tries to get back on his feet.  It’s going to be miserably hard for him and any help he can get is going to make a difference.  I’ll side with you on setting him up at your house when he can be released from hospital care, but whether he decides to stay after he’s healed is up to him.”

      “More than fair, John.  More than fair.”

      “And I take it I’m the last one to know about this.  Even Arthur seems to have a better bead on things than I do.”

      “Actually, I do not believe cousin Martin is fully aware of the situation, so you are not the last.  Arthur was surprisingly adept at keeping my little secret without truly making himself a teller of untruths.”

      “He’s definitely got hidden talents.  And more strength than I would have imagined.  You’re… you’ve got something in place for him, right?  He’s going need…”

      “Already arranged.  He shall be seeing a counselor for period of time.”

      “That’s good.  I… well, I know what something like this can do to a person, especially one like Arthur, if he doesn’t get the chance to work through it.”

      “He shall get that chance, John.  I promise you that.”

      “Another point in your favor, then.  So… what about that murdering bastard, Edgar?”

      “Who told you about that?  Oh!  Did Greg wake up?”

John and Mycroft looked over to see Arthur just walking through the door with two paper cups in his hands and a hopeful light in his eyes.”

      “Sorry, Arthur.  Greg’s going to be out for awhile, I’m afraid.  That mine?”

Arthur handed over the cup labeled ‘Doctor Watson’ in black pen and handed the other labeled cup to Mycroft.

      “Just like you like it.  For both of you!  I found the cafeteria and the nicest people work there.  They let me look at their kitchen and, well let me tell you, it was brilliant!  Everything was so big!  I could have cooked all the food for our party in that kitchen.  They even let me have a bun, which was very nice.  I was a bit hungry after my shout and dance.”

      “I am relieved you had an enjoyable constitutional, Arthur; however, could you clarify what you meant when you entered the room?”

      “I asked if Greg was awake… I’m not really sure how to say that more clearly.”

      “I was thinking, rather, of what you said just before that question.”

      “Oh!  I was wondering who told you about the murders.”

      “And there we find the point on which I would appreciate further clarification.  To which murders are you referring.”

      “The ones Edgar had done to make Greg have to work a lot so that he couldn’t spend time with you.  I think he said there were four of them which is… he’s a very bad man, Mycroft.  I hope you plan on making him go to jail for a very, very long time.”

John and Mycroft stared at each other and Arthur began to get worried he’d said something wrong.

      “Mycroft?  Doctor Watson?  Is everything…”

      “It’s all fine, Arthur.  You actually heard him say that?”

      “Well, yes.  I could hear what they were saying very well, actually, and Edgar said he’d gotten people to do that for him so Greg would have to work very hard and not have time to see Mycroft, which seems like a lot of effort just to break up Mycroft and Greg, but I’m not entirely sure that Edgar has all of his bats in his belfry.  I think some may have escaped and now he’s… well, he’s missing some bats!”

      “Mycroft… you realize that if… Arthur’s not only a witness to…”

      “There will never be a trial, John, if that is your worry.”

      “What!  No!  Mycroft you have to make sure Edgar goes to jail!”

      “Be at peace, Arthur.  I assure you that Edgar will meet with the justice he so richly deserves.  It will simply not require a trial to accomplish.”

      “Well, ok… as long as he’s punished for what he did to Greg and those other people.  And you make him say he’s sorry too!  Maybe even send an _I’m Sorry_ card to Greg, since he can’t send one to the other people, you know the ones who are dead, but he could send one to their families and that would probably make them feel better.  Can you make sure he does that?”

      “I will see what can be achieved.  Now, I do believe that the next choice of film was mine?  May I see your mobile?”

      “Sure!  And is Doctor Watson staying to watch, too?”

Arthur’s face was so delighted at the idea that John couldn’t have said no even if had wanted to.

      “I most certainly am.  Got my tea, can keep an eye on the old copper over there… life’s good.”

      “Brilliant!  Something fun, Mycroft!”

Mycroft knew exactly what he wanted to watch because he needed some form of stability at this moment.  His own reserves were rapidly depleting.  When _The Wizard of Oz_ started to play on Arthur’s mobile, Mycroft switched on again the television in Lestrade’s room, not hearing clearly the excited gasp when Arthur saw his selection and drew another chair over to sit closely to John.

      “This is perfect, Mycroft!  Oh, this is the best film and I’m sure Greg loves it!  Doctor Watson does too, because he’s already smiling.  You’re the best!”

Not that Mycroft believed that for a single second.  His Gregory lay near death because of his foolishness and now… four people.  Four people killed because he had completely misread Edgar’s degree of jealousy.  And insanity.  Though, perhaps, extreme selfishness and entitlement was not a mental illness.  That was the better option, actually, for with mental illness, there was hope of treatment and correction and Edgar was not going to be allowed that opportunity.  Better to read his behavior for what it was: self-serving evil that had him see others as meaningless compared to his own wants.  He was a detriment to society and would be removed as soon as Mycroft was able to spare a moment away from Lestrade’s side.

__________

Sherlock and Martin arrived not long after the film ended and Arthur had persuaded John and Mycroft into a game of cards that seemed to have rather fluid set of rules based on colors, subtraction and fairy tales.

      “Skip!  Mr. Sherlock!  This is wonderful!  Everyone is here and you can play cards, too, since I brought two decks and we’ll need another one for two more people since I’m already playing one hand for Greg and he’s doing better than me which is a bit odd, but brilliant anyway!”

      “You can deal me in, love, but I’m not sure about Sherlock.”

      “I will decide in a moment.  Mycroft, may I have a word?”

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged a silent series of messages and Mycroft laid down his cards, making his excuses to follow his brother into the hallway.

      “I have made inquiries, Mycroft.”

      “Concerning?”

      “Your gigolo.  He has apparently taken up residence in your home.  I do not know if he has begun redecorating, but you should be aware that he is, now, fully wearing his role as your partner in domesticity.”

      “I see.  That… that could work to my advantage.”

      “You still hope to salvage your operation?”

      “I believe it was you that beseeched me not to allow Gregory to die for a sacrificed objective.  Gregory’s suffering must count for something.  I must have something to tell him when he wakes that will give him some ease.  Permit him some understanding.”

      “And will he be avenged?”

      “You know better than to believe otherwise, Sherlock.”

      “When?”

      “When the time is right.  When I am assured that the vultures roosting on Gregory’s bedframe have moved on to a more likely meal.”

      “You will inform me.”

      “I find that unlikely.”

      “I was not asking.”

      “This is not your…”

      “Do not tell me this is not my business.  You _will_ inform me when you are to confront Edgar and I _will_ attend that confrontation.”

      “Sherlock… some things are not for your eyes.”

      “I am not as _little_ a brother as you would like to believe.”

      “I can still protect you, nonetheless.”

      “Do not deny me this, Mycroft.  Edgar nearly cost me… if Lestrade had died…”

Mycroft watched his brother battle down the feelings he desperately did not want to expose and knew he could not deny his brother the chance to act on his affection for the Detective Inspector.  He _had_ done rather an impressive amount of damage to the idiotic American who threatened Mrs. Hudson, after all…

      “Very well.  We shall take up this discussion after Gregory has entered a more reliable state of health.”

      “Acceptable.  Now, I believe we are late for a card game.”

      “I believe you will enjoy this one immensely, brother dear.  Did you know that if you draw a seven after a king, the king becomes a wizard?  And that is only the first of a host of intriguing rules.”

      “Please tell me there are no dragons.”

      “Not a one.  Unless, of course, your queen is played before a two.”

      “Lestrade will owe me substantially for this and I _will_ exact repayment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minifics for Mystrade and other pairings on my tumblr:
> 
> eventhorizon451.tumblr.com


	38. The Waiting is the Hardest Part

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My ongoing gratitude to those who take the time to let me know their feelings about this piece!

The third day of Lestrade’s hospitalization, Martin began to take day-only flights for MJN, but carried with him Arthur’s request for a leave of absence, which Arthur and Mycroft had spent the previous  evening drafting in rather excruciating detail.  He also carried Mycroft’s assurance to Carolyn that any income lost because of pilot/steward disability would be fully covered.

      “Martin, tell me, at least, that my idiot son is planning on returning to work at some point in the future.  I am not pleased having to cover his responsibilities as well as mine.  I thought that your little jaunt to London marked the last of my having to slave like a coal miner to keep a roof over my head, when I birthed a worker especially for that purpose. And, speaking of my roof, does it still exist in a position that could be described as over my head, were I actually in my own home to enjoy it?”

      “He’ll come back when he’s ready, Carolyn, but I wouldn’t count on it being soon.  He’s doing… he’s doing better, but he needs to be near Greg right now.  I think he almost believes that he has to be there or Greg won’t make it.  And he’s trying his hardest to be a… party host… for when we’re visiting Greg’s room.  He’s doing everything he can to make people happy and take their minds off of their worry… and it’s nearly impossible getting him back to his own bed at night, especially since Mycroft won’t leave the hospital at all… John’s nerves are completely frayed and he’s taken to spending time whispering to Greg every time he visits like he’s a schoolboy telling secrets, Sherlock keeps asking me ridiculous things like if I think I have the aim to drop a body into a volcano like a bloody bomb on a target and how hard it is to remotely fly a plane into a mountain…  I’m… I’m the rational one!  Out of all of them, I, Martin Crieff, am the only one with his head squarely on his shoulders.  That’s how insane things are right now, so I wouldn’t count on _anything_ returning to normal any time in the near future!”

      “Martin, if you are considered the voice of reason within your troupe of monkeys, then the situation indeed dire.  But… Arthur is acquitting himself admirably, if I understand you properly.  He is choosing not to discuss matters with me, for reasons I do not comprehend, so I am… oh, this is deathly difficult… I am relying on you to keep me informed on my son’s well-being.”

Martin chose not to tell Carolyn that Arthur was completely petrified that if he said anything she would order him to stay home or make him come and stay at Herc’s, away from the rest of them, and that would, in his current state, tear him apart.

      “I’ll keep you updated… I can do that.  You’ll need to be up to speed when we… well, at some point the London squad is going back to London and I’ll be… well, I’ll be going back to my flat and Arthur will need to have someone with him and I won’t… well, I won’t be there will I, at least not all the time and he’ll need someone… more often than I can be there for him and…”

      “Martin, what are your exact intentions towards my son?”

The words dried up in Martin’s mouth and he stared at Carolyn who stared back with a glare that rivaled Sherlock at his most piercing.

      “I… what do you mean?”

      “Do not try to convince me that you are even more stupid than I think because, believe that I speak the holy truth in this, there is no possibility that I could think you any more stupid than I already do.  Now, what do you intend for my Arthur?  In the long term.  The permanently long term.  The ‘I need warning so I can find the right dress’ long term.  Am I making myself clear or do I have to add tapping your nose with a newspaper to reinforce my message?”

Being run over by a train probably felt very much like this interrogation.

      “Martin?  Martin!  I am not getting any younger and I must ensure that anyone foolish enough to willingly take up the care, feeding and watering of Arthur is properly trained and groomed for the position.”

      “I… well, that is to say… I plan… it’s rather like this…”

      “Martin, do shut up.  In these few short months, heavily clouded by your dubious influence, Arthur has contributed to a missing person’s investigation, nursemaided a buffoon through a detoxification process, successfully implemented what must, unfortunately, be called a stable and _mutually_ -rewarding relationship, participated in a criminal investigation without getting himself killed, organized a party that is still being talked about when I visit the shops, and… pushed aside his Arthur-ness to keep his head in a crisis and give a man a chance at life.  The best his pony-club girls could draw from him was the ability to show up to a dance on time!  I do not know what infernal hoodoo you have perpetrated on him but Arthur… I always knew he had _something_ inside him, but I doubted I’d ever live to see it.  I expect to hear joyful news before long, else we shall have to have another little conversation.  Do I make myself quite clear?”

Luckily for Martin, Carolyn was appeased with a hearty swallow and a timid nod.

      Good.  Now, you have work to do.  Mr. Holmes is quite generous, however, we at MJN do like to stand on our own two feet.  Now, if you need me, I shall be having a sit down at my desk.”

Martin watched Carolyn march away and hoped to all that was holy that…

      “Ah, Captain Crieff.  Or shall I say, Captain Crieff-Shappey?”

…Douglas hadn’t heard any of that.

      “Douglas…”

      “I expect, of course, to be your best man at your blessed event and am already planning the most fabulous bachelor party you could possibly imagine, though finding a sufficient number of strippers, male or female, in Fitton will prove to be quite the challenge…”

      “Douglas, I am not ready to get married.”

      “Nonsense!  Marriage is a wonderful institution.  Why do you think I engage in it so often?”

      “But you have an actual salary and a house to live in and… means.  I don’t have any of that and I’m positive Arthur hasn’t a clue as to how close _he_ is to not having any means, either.  I can’t promise to take care of him and keep him comfortable, when I can’t even do it for myself, now can I?”

      “That’s all that’s bothering you?”

      “ALL!  I think that’s bloody well enough, don’t you?”

      “Not at all.  Somehow, no matter what has happened, neither you nor Arthur has found themselves sleeping rough.  Well, not routinely.  And, I’m certain that if you run into a spot of bother, your illustrious family will muck in to assist.  And I do mean the gentlemen of London and not the dolts in Wokingham.”

      “I’m not taking their charity.  I told Mycroft he could help us get a loan for a house someday, but that’s all.”

      “Ah, the man who more appropriately wears the title ‘Supreme Commander’ than do you, despite his probable lack of gold braid.  I have made enquiries, you know.  Talked to some fellows...  I must admit, Martin, I _am_ impressed.”

      “Yes, well… he is impressive.  Usually.  Not now.  Now he looks like he’s going to follow Greg into the ground if we have to lay his casket into the earth.”

      “And that is to his credit, I’m sure.  However, you might give thought to the fact that a man who appears to wield a rather ghastly amount of power takes time to fawn over… well… Arthur.”

      “I get it, Douglas.  Mycroft has money and power and influence and can give everything to Arthur that Arthur could ever want and I can’t do anything…”

      “I am not certain you do ‘get it,’ Sir.  Men of that echelon do not have to do _anything_ under the heavens that they do not wish to do, yet he expends great energy in doting on a pilot and steward from the world’s only self-proclaimed ‘air dot.’  A man like that would do so only if he could gain something _substantial_ from the association.  Since neither you nor Arthur have anything tangible to offer that would be acceptable to a dormouse, we must assume he is gaining something intangible.  Something like, oh I don’t know… satisfaction from helping people he cares for?”

Martin kicked at the ground and wanted to snarl out a reply, but couldn’t actually think of one in rebuttal.

      “Arthur has said something similar in the past.”

      “Then aren’t you being a selfish bugger denying the man what he wants.  Now, I’m not saying to go and live with the poor fellow, no one deserves to be tortured like that, but what’s wrong with allowing him to be the staunch and fierce protector of his family.  I’m sure that raggedy brother of his doesn’t help much in that.”

      “Sherlock?  I’ve never been 100% sure that if Mycroft vanished tomorrow, Sherlock would ever even notice.”

      “Then there you have it.  You take Arthur to be your lawfully-wedded wife and let old Mr. Holmes keep a patriarchal eye on your state of affairs.  Everybody’s happy.  Including Carolyn.”

      “Which makes _you_ happy.”

      “Exceedingly.  The happier and more distracted she is with her son’s upcoming state of matrimonial bliss, the less of her attention she keeps focused on other things.  And people.”

      “Like you.”

      “That would be one example, yes.”

      “So you want me to propose to Arthur so you can have an easier time with all of your… businesses.”

      “As I said Martin.  Everybody’s happy.”

      “Oh god… how is this my life?”

      “I don’t know.  You must have done something right for a change.”

__________

      “Mycroft?”

Mycroft had trained his subconscious long ago to process information and act accordingly.  Therefore, Arthur did not have his life ended when he woke Mycroft from a deep, though fitful, nap.

      “Yes, Arthur… I do apologize for nodding off.  What can I do for you?”

      “I…”

Mycroft stilled seeing the fear in Arthur’s eyes and dashed over to Lestrade’s bed, looking for any indication of a decline.

      “Arthur, what is the matter?”

      “I… that is, I probably shouldn’t have been eavesdropping, no… I know I shouldn’t have been eavesdropping, but it was some of Greg’s doctors and they were talking and I heard his name…”

Mycroft guided Arthur to take a seat and kept hold of the younger man’s hand as he waited for Arthur to finish.

      “They said they were going to try and get him to wake up and… see if they could take out the tube that’s helping him breathe and let him breathe all on his own.”

      “But, those are all very good indicators of progress, my boy.  Why do you appear so trepidatious?”

Arthur squeezed Mycroft’s hand and Mycroft was very alarmed to see tears forming in Arthur’s eyes.

      “Because… they also said that it might _not_ be a good thing.  That stress and having to do all of his own breathing and Doctor Watson wasn’t there and he’s the one who knows best what to do with Greg… and what if… oh, Mycroft…”

Arthur’s tears started flowing and Mycroft wouldn’t even remember pulling the boy out of his chair and putting them both on the small sofa where Arthur could wrap his arms around Mycroft’s body and lean in to weep.

      “It’s alright, Arthur.  I promise you that no one, not any member of this staff will lay one finger on Gregory to change his status unless John is present to supervise.”

      “But they want to take out his air tube!  That’s how he’s breathing!”

      “Not entirely.  John explained to you that the ventilator is only _helping_ Gregory breathe, he is accomplishing quite a bit on his own.”

      “But you get help when you can’t do it right on your own!  He can’t breathe right on his own and… you didn’t see him, Mycroft!  You didn’t see him laying there and trying to get out those last few words and the bubbles… oh I can’t even think about the bubbles!  They were pink and made the blood… I HATE BUBBLES! HE GOT OUT LESS THAN FIVE WORDS AND THE REST OF HIS AIR WAS TRAPPED IN PINK BUBBLES THAT PUSHED EVEN MORE BLOOD OUT OF HIS MOUTH!  THEN HE WAS DEAD!  HE DIDN’T BREATHE AND HIS CHEST DIDN’T MOVE AND HIS HEART DIDN’T WORK AND HE WAS DEAD! DEAD! DEAD! DEAD!”

Mycroft grabbed Arthur tightly and held back his own emotions only through a painful act of will, leaving all of his attention to be for Arthur, who was shaking so hard, Mycroft was worried he would have a difficult time ever stopping.  But that didn’t stop him trying to soothe the boy by stroking his back as Arthur let hot and bitter tears race down his face.

      “Take your time and release what you can, Arthur.  And when you require, in the future, to do so again, know that you can come to me.  You can always come to me, my dear boy.  Do you understand?”

Arthur nodded and gripped Mycroft harder, which seemed to also help calm him down the smallest bit.

      “Now, let me describe the situation as I perceive it and all you have to do is listen.  Can you do that?”

Another nod and another slight reduction in Arthur’s trembling.

      “Gregory has shown some improvement, enough that they are willing to try and give him the chance to demonstrate more.  If they remove his breathing tube, he can take more command of his own respiration, which he will need to do to recover.  If they see it is too soon, it would be a simple matter to reinsert the aid and provide more prolonged assistance.  And we all wish for Gregory to waken, himself included, I am most certain.  John said an extended period of quiet would actually be beneficial to him, but he does need to re-enter the waking world so that he can more fully participate in his own recovery.  Again, if it appears the decision was made in haste, I would expect that they could send him back to slumber with little effort.  No one is going to allow him begin to fail, when they can correct their actions and take him back, if needed, to this state.  Now, you have been very desirous to see him open his eyes and take positive steps forward… may I ask what caused this particular distress?”

Arthur reached up and wiped his eyes, keeping his head on Mycroft’s shoulder.

      “The doctors… they said they don’t know if he _will_ wake up.  Something about lack of oxygen or other problems and if he doesn’t… what if it’s my fault, Mycroft?  I already know… I broke something inside him when I was trying to help and… I want Greg to wake up more than anything, but if he doesn’t then it could be because of me and I don’t know what I’ll do if…”

      “Balderdash.  Simply balderdash.  Those doctors do not know our Gregory, nor the extent of your valiant efforts towards his survival.  They are speaking as to possibilities for an _average_ person who had not the advantage of your swift and attentive care.  And, do not worry if you feel you affected a small bit of breakage for it will simply be of his ribs and they will heal well, especially with the enforced bed rest he will enjoy.  It is not a consequence, so give that not a second thought.”

      “But… really?”

      “Arthur, I would not tell you these things if they were at all untrue, for you would learn of it at some point and be greatly disappointed in me, which I could not bear.  However, John will be here soon and he will confirm my assertions.  And… while he discusses matters with the other members of Gregory’s team, you and I can make more of those delightful _garlands_ you showed me.  The multitude of little children holding hands?  Or perhaps add to your very impressive gallery of drawings on the walls?”

Arthur wiped his eyes again and let out a very long exhale of breath, his muscles slackening further as the mental toxins began to leach away for the time being.

      “And, you’ll do some, too?”

Fortunately, Mycroft was prepared for that particular request.

      “Absolutely.  I have in mind already some appropriate compositions for my contribution.”

      “Ok.  I’ll get my supplies ready and we can get started while we wait for Doctor Watson.”

      “Excellent.  Pencils for me, if you don’t mind.”

      “Good, that leaves the markers for me and I want to make some BIG pictures for Greg.  When he wakes up, and he will and it will be good and he won’t have any problems or anything, I want him to see big, colorful pictures.”

      “A wonderful idea.  One, I have no doubt, he will much appreciate.”

__________

John and Sherlock arrived at the hospital and, though there was no surprise to find Arthur surrounded by a wide assortment of art supplies, it _was_ highly unusual to see Mycroft with a selection of colored pencils by his side and a sketchbook in his hand.  As soon as they cleared the door, Arthur looked over at Mycroft who nodded to the young man, who jumped up and dragged John back through the door and into the hall.

      “Should I be worried?”

      “Of Arthur?  Perish the thought.  He is simply desiring to gain confirmation on a few items of information.  The bone-rattlers they keep on staff are contemplating removing some of Gregory’s support and moving him towards a wakeful state.”

      “Without consulting John?”

      “Apparently so.  However, I am confident that John will demonstrate to them fully the error of their ways.”

      “That goes without saying.”

Sherlock moved to an empty chair, stopping a moment to look at what Mycroft was creating.

      “I did not know you still drew.”

      “I do not.  Not, at least, in the manner that I once did.”

      “I still have it, if that means something to you.  The sketch you did of me.  The one you gave me.”

The sketch he made of his brother on Sherlock’s birthday, the last year he called their family house his home before settling permanently in London.  Mycroft had assumed it had gone the way of everything he had given to or tried to do for Sherlock…

      “It does.  Thank you for that.”

      “Lestrade will be pleased, I think.  He, like John, values sentimental gestures.”

      “It is my hope that he will appreciate my sadly out-of-practice efforts.  They will pale, of course, against Arthur’s masterworks.”

Sherlock had to chuckle looking around the room that far more resembled one you would find in a daycare than in a hospital, with colorful pictures on every wall, handcrafted decorations hanging from the light fixtures, a stuffed polar bear on the bedside table and several balls of yarn sitting on the windowsill.  Arthur was hoping to teach himself to knit so he could make caps, scarves and socks to keep their patient warm in the chilly facility.

      “However, Lestrade will treasure yours most specially.”

Mycroft set aside his pencil and pad and simply stared at what _he_ treasured, sleeping soundly and continuing to fight the good fight.

      “It is my hope he will.  That he will accept them.  And me.”

      “At the very minimum you shall not encounter as strident a resistance from John as you might have previously.  It was good for him to hear the truth from you.”

      “And it was good to tell it.  It would be quite problematic for John to tend to Gregory while Gregory lived behind the walls of the home of the enemy.”

      “It might have been a source of conflict; however, John is the consummate professional and would have overlooked his personal biases.”

      “Quite so.  I stand corrected.”

      “You are being suspiciously agreeable.”

      “I shall blame my aberration on fatigue and we will let the matter stand.”

      “Arthur had a difficult day.”

      “It is to be expected.”

      “I’m… I am gratified that he finds you someone in whom he can confide.  I will not deny you have been of value to him.”

Mycroft was glad Sherlock was looking out of the window as he spoke and did not see the tiny smile that played briefly on his lips.

      “I do what I can and he deserves _all_ that I can do.”

      “Yes, he does.  And, if it is required, he shall receive the same from me.  And John, of course.”

      “Oh, of course.  Now, brother dear, if you are looking for a contributory area in which to indulge, you might take up scissors and try your hand at one of the lovely paper snowflakes that he is creating brighten that slightly dim corner of the room near Gregory’s bed.”

      “John requires tea.  I shall obtain that now as a gesture of affection.”

      “As you wish.  And it shall be our little secret from the criminal element that the great Sherlock Holmes can be thwarted if presented with a pair of scissors and a sheet of colored paper.”

      “You shall not be receiving tea.”

      “I shall suffer in silence.”

Sherlock snorted and jumped from his chair, striding towards the door to narrowly miss colliding with John and Arthur as they reentered the room.

      “I will return with tea.  Do not discuss scissors with Mycroft.”

      “Ok, got that.  Mycroft, no talking about scissors.”

      “I accept your terms, John.  There is a lightness about you, Arthur… did you have a pleasant conversation?”

      “Yes!  Doctor Watson talked to me and I feel a LOT better now.  He said everything you said was true and that he’s going to make sure that no one does anything that’s not good for Greg.  And that the more pictures and snowflakes I make the happier Greg’s going to be!  Oh!  I need more paper.  I’m going to find some more and maybe some juice.  Or water.  But probably juice.  The nice cafeteria people said I could stop by for a chat and juice when I wanted to and I haven’t been there today, so maybe now would be a good time to do that and then find more paper and, I wonder if someone has any glitter?  Maybe the kind made with the big stars mixed in?”

      “I think you have fashioned yourself quite the quest, my boy.  Why don’t you commence and we shall keep Gregory company in the meantime.”

      “Brilliant!  I’ll be back soon!  Bye Greg!  I’m going to make sure you’ve got lots of things to look at when you open your eyes!”

Mycroft was very relieved to hear Arthur’s laughter ring out as he danced out of the room, and it was evident that John’s relief was just as great.

      “He got wound up pretty good, didn’t he?”

      “I think it was simply too much at once and it cracked the composure he has been trying to keep erect.  For his or our benefit I am not entirely sure.  John, to what degree are his fears with foundation?”

      “Some.  I won’t say he’s totally off the mark worrying about the outcome.”

      “Very well.  Do you, then, think it is wise to take these actions at this time?”

John moved to Lestrade’s bed and looked down at his friend, adjusting his blanket and checking over the readings on his monitors.

      “John the friend says no, it is not wise.  Greg should be allowed as much rest as we can give him.  Let him heal up with no distractions or additional stresses.  He’s not conscious of any pain right now, doesn’t have to deal with the emotional trauma of what happened to him… why bring him around to suffer all of that?”

      “However…”

      “Yeah.  John Watson, with his yellowing medical degree, says yes.  He’s progressed to a point where he should start interacting with his environment to a greater degree.  And, there are things about his condition only he can tell us and he can’t do that when he’s unconscious.  Greg still won’t be able to do much, but this _is_ the next step towards coming back.”

      “When?”

      “The timing’s not critical.  We can wait until after Arthur’s gone home for the night.  Martin should be back fairly early and…”

      “No.  For good or ill, Arthur should be here.  If I am correct, there would not be any immediate changes for him to observe?”

      “Likely not.  The ventilator won’t be an issue.  It’s ugly to see it removed, but Greg’s been doing well pushing his air around, so I don’t anticipate any problems.  We’ll start nudging him towards consciousness and… who knows.  He might stay under, he might start to come around.  Even if he does, it will probably be in stages.  He’ll show signs, maybe open his eyes, but won’t register much.  It might take a few false starts before he’s actually awake _and_ aware.  I worry about Arthur experiencing that, though.  With what he went through, watching Greg not be able to stay conscious… or worse, looking like he’s conscious, but being unaware an unresponsive.  There’s a lot of variation as to what people do when they come out of a few days of living entirely inside their heads…”

      “And he might not come out at all?”

      “There’s a chance, yeah.  We’ve kept him sedated, but a lot of being out has been him and not the meds.”

      “Thank you, John.  I appreciate your honesty, as always.”

      “No problem.  I’ll start the ball rolling, then.  Martin’s supposed to call when he’s back at the airfield, so I’ll wait until he can be here with Arthur.”

      “That would be best.”

Because Mycroft had lost the ability to anticipate his own reactions and could not guarantee that he could focus necessary attention on Arthur if the situation began to take a downturn.

      “Tonight it is, then.  I’ll go see if I can find Sherlock and my tea, then hunt down these people who have been having little conferences behind my back.”

      “You have my full support in any disciplinary actions you may wish to enact, John.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind.”

John flashed Mycroft a grin, then left the man alone in the room with only a sleeping figure for company.

      “What a fuss, my dear… one I would imagine you would find rather amusing were you fully here to observe.  But, I shall report to you all aspects of your experience that you have unfortunately missed.  You shall not suffer a lack of knowledge of how your friends and… family… have dedicated themselves to your welfare.  You are greatly cared for, my dear.  You are cared for, deeply loved and I know you offer those feelings in return.  Soon, we shall be home, Gregory.  Our home.  And you will still find yourself embraced by those who care for you and thrive, themselves, from your attention.  Now, I shall return to my little surprises, but know that I am still here at your side.  Where I will forever be, if you will be kind enough to allow me the privilege.”

__________

      “Oh god… I am _exhausted_.”

      “You sit and occasionally flip a switch or turn a steering mechanism.  I think you are exaggerating your degree of fatigue.”

      “Shut it, Sherlock.  It’s more than that.  And it’s mentally tiring, having to make sure we… well, we don’t crash!  And… you try sitting for hour after hour in a small space with Douglas Richardson.”

      “Ah… for the latter point only, I stand corrected.”

Martin rubbed his eyes and shook the sleepiness out of his brain.

      “So… I talked to John.”

      “And I assume he informed you of the actions he will be taking this evening.”

      “He did.  How’s Arthur handling things?”

      “Not well, early on; however he has improved his outlook, as the large zoo scene now presented above Lestrade’s bed and the blizzard of snowflakes near the door testify.”

      “Crafting his way through his problems.  It’s one of his coping mechanisms.  I get deluged in manipulated photos, finger puppets and mixed-media collages every time Gordon calls.”

      “His father, correct?”

      “If you want to call him that.”

      “So he will not be attending the wedding.”

      “WHAT!”

      “Do I truly have to explain my observations?”

      “NO!  Just don’t.  Really… don’t.  And do not say one word about any of your _observations_ to Arthur or I will end your life in a very untidy fashion.”

      “I do believe Mycroft is rubbing off on you.”

      “There’s worse things in life.”

      “We could have a prolonged debate on that issue, but I believe I hear the return of those who find eating to be an activity that must be attended to multiple times.  Every day.  Deplorable.”

      “You know… John got Arthur’s pancake recipe.”

      “He did?”

      “Yes… yes, he did.”

      “John is dedicated to the expression of his love for me.”

      “And god knows why.  Oh, here we go… hello, everyone.”

      “Skip!  Oh, Skip, I’m so glad you’re here.”

Arthur raced over and embraced Martin tightly.

      “Was everything ok?”

      “The flight was exactly as expected.  Quick cargo run to Zurich, then a little side-trip for a Mr. Farmer to grab a pouch of who knows what, though Douglas would dearly love to know just what that _what_ actually was.”

      “A trifling matter, I assure you, Martin.  And, unless Mr. Richardson speaks Korean, he would find his snooping woefully unfulfilling.”

      “Lesson Number 1. Don’t underestimate Douglas Richardson.”

      “Hmmm, perhaps I should make his acquaintance.”

      “No.  Under circumstances equaling zero.  Not going to happen as long as I live and breathe.”

      “But, Skip, that could be brilliant!  Mycroft and Douglas…”

      “I love you dearly, Arthur, but if you try and matchmake those two…”

      “Why would I do that?  Mycroft and Greg are boyfriends.  _Forever_ boyfriends if I’m right about this and I think I am completely monkeys-love-bananas right about this.”

      “It was just an expression, love.  Now why don’t you sit with me and let me hear about your day.”

Martin put his arm around Arthur, escorting him down to sit together on the small sofa and Martin gladly settled in to listen to Arthur enact the details of his busy day.

      “John?”

      “Sherlock?

      “Really, John?”

      “Oh fine… can’t I play mysterious for even one second.”

      “No.  It is not your strength.”

      “Well, honest me to death, why don’t you?  Anyway… I’ll get a nurse in here in a few minutes and we’ll take out the breathing tube.  Then, we’ll start drawing down the sedatives.  I’m not sure why everyone’s so anxious… this is going to pretty anticlimactic, actually.”

      “Anything to do with Lestrade’s care is of interest.  And I do plan on keeping my own watchful eye on his progress, even… even if it means visiting my brother from time to time.”

      “Shall we synchronize our schedules, Sherlock, so that you can avoid my presence as much as is humanly feasible?”

      “I would appreciate the gesture.”

      “Then we have an accord.  John, we will leave you to your work.”

John looked from one brother to the other and left, shaking his head.

      “You _are_ making an effort to buoy John’s spirits and maintain his fortitude, correct?”

      “I am supremely skilled at taking proper care of John.  Just today, I brought him tea.”

      “Is that supposed to salve my concern?”

      “More than if I had _not_ brought him tea.”

      “Touche.  Shall we sit while we wait?”

      “It would be the wisest course.  The wait could be an extensive one.”

      “And for that I am fully prepared.”

      “As am I.”

__________

Removing the breathing tube was as distressing as Mycroft had imagined.  He had to stop himself twice from halting John’s actions and letting his love continue on with the breathing assistance rather than watch the long tube snake out of his mouth in an almost obscene manner.  Martin kept Arthur close to him and held him tightly, which maintained Arthur’s calm to some degree during the procedure, though his distress was still clearly visible.

      “Well, that’s done.  And he’s not doing badly on his own for the moment.  I’ll keep a close eye that there aren’t any nasty surprises, but it’s looking good so far.”

      “Does the mean he should keep breathing?”

John turned his most reassuring smile towards the very worried Arthur.

      “I think he’ll do fine.”

      “And… is he going to wake up?”

      “That part I can’t give you any definite timeframe for, but I think he will.  He’s got too much waiting for him not to.”

Arthur nodded and tried to smile, almost doing a good job of it.

      “Thank you, John.  Will you and Sherlock be staying?”

Mycroft was highly amused to hear the in-unison ‘Yes!’

      “Well, then I suggest we find something to occupy our time.  Arthur, I believe you can provide recreational activities to keep us amused?”

      “Me?  Brilliant!  Of course I can!  I’ve got my cards and I can make a boardgame on a piece of paper… oh, I have exactly the one.  And we can use… yes!  There’s a plastic spoon we can use for a spinner…”

While Arthur jumped into action, the other men nudged off shoes, shuffled off jackets and made themselves ready for what the night would bring.

__________

Mycroft actually adored the night.  There was a peace associated with it that simply did not exist during the day.  Arthur’s rather elaborate game had lasted for an admirable amount of time, then the first one to fall was Martin.  John checked Gregory before ‘taking a moment to rest his eyes’ and was snoring gently with his head against Sherlock’s shoulder.  Sherlock… who scorned sleep, yet faded rapidly after his partner succumbed to slumber.  Arthur held on longer, but eventually curled against Martin and added his own tones to the gentle hum of snores that filled the room.  Only Mycroft stayed awake.  As he had every night.  Nighttime was also the time when the demons walked.  When suicides increased and lovers quarreled and hearts failed…

      “All of our children are contentedly asleep, my love.  They insisted on being here for you, so you must make their vigil a happy one.  It must be far more comfortable without that dreadful pipe down your throat.  John says you are performing most adequately and that your oxygen level is acceptable for one in your condition.  And he has lowered your level of relaxants, so that you may more easily swim to the surface of your mind…”

Mycroft wondered how he had existed before without the feel of his Gregory’s skin beneath his fingers.

      “But you must do as is best for yourself, my dear.  Take your time and come back to me only when you are ready.  We have much to speak of, you and I, and this conversation shall, hopefully, be one that pleases you.  Brightens your smile and strengthens your resolve to cement our relationship.  Shall I tell you, my love, that I had a lovely conversation with Mrs. Knapp-Shappey today about what will be the soon-announced engagement of our dear Arthur and Martin?  We have come to an agreement, she and I as to how the ceremony shall be conducted and how we shall establish a household for the happy couple.  I am not being humble when I state that your assistance shall be most necessary for this endeavor, so you must return to me, Gregory.  On your own schedule… but you simply must return.  I must have someone to dance with at the reception, correct?”

      “Dan…”

Mycroft felt time stop and his own heart along with it.

      “Gregory?  My dearest, can you hear me?”

There was a movement to Lestrade’s head that Mycroft chose to interpret as an affirmative nod and he could not stop his hand rising to stroke the face that was now only obstructed by a small nasal cannula.

      “You shall likely forget this, my love, but know that I shall not.  Can you… Gregory, can you open your eyes?”

Lestrade’s head moved around a little before his eyes opened a tiny crack and seemed to settle on Mycroft.

      “There you are, my dear.  I had wondered where you… where you had gone.”

For all of the ridiculous romantic films that displayed the protagonist choking on his words against a torrent of impending tears, Mycroft had never believed he would be in that very position and suffering/rejoicing just as greatly.

      “My…”

      “Yes, Gregory… I am here.”

      “A…Ar”

      “He is perfectly fine.  Edgar did not learn of his presence.”

Lestrade’s eyes seemed to widen with the knowledge, then settle back to their formerly lethargic appearance.

      “M…”

      “I will be here, my dear.  Do not fret if you fall again to sleep.  You shall not be alone, nor have you been alone.  I have been here to watch over you and I shall continue to do so.  Tonight and for all the nights to come.  You are the one I love, my dearest Gregory, I could do nothing less.”

It could have been his imagination, but Mycroft would choose to believe that the again widening eyes and the nearly-imperceptible twitch to his beloved’s lips was an agreement to their new bond.

      “M… me…”

      “What, Gregory?  Can you give me more?  I do wish to understand…”

      “…too…”

Mycroft could not even choke out a reply anymore, only able to clasp his Gregory’s hand and lean in to press a kiss to his Gregory’s dry lips.  Pulling back, he saw his love’s eyes closed again and gentle prompting did not bring him back to wakefulness.  But that was irrelevant.  Gregory would not remember this conversation, but Mycroft forever would.  His Gregory spoke without the filters of his actively-conscious mind and stated clearly his feelings.  There was no need to rely on second-hand knowledge any further, because he had heard his Gregory profess his love and there was nothing in the world that permeated Mycroft Holmes body, mind and soul as the final proof that the one he loved returned that love gladly.  Perhaps Gregory’s conscious mind would rebel at his confession, perhaps it would not, but that was immaterial.  Mycroft now knew his dear Gregory’s inner heart and that had freed the final locks and chains that Mycroft had kept carefully maintained around his own small and wretched heart.

      “Sleep well, my love.  I shall be here when you wake again and we shall continue our chat.”


	39. Corners are Meant to Be Rounded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks, as always, to everyone supplying input on this piece and leaving kind words of encouragement!

      “Go ‘way. “

      “If I did not believe you would value the information, John, I would gladly leave you to your rest.”

John shoved himself upright using Sherlock as a prop and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

      Ok, I’m awake.  What’s going on?”

      “Gregory regained consciousness briefly.”

That news erased the last traces of drowsiness in John’s brain.

      “For how long?”

      “Scarcely a minute, but I would assume that is a positive sign, nonetheless.”

      “It is… how did he behave?”

      “Lethargic.  As if in a daze, however, he did respond to my voice and to simple requests.  He opened his eyes when I asked, for example.”

      “Did he say anything?”

      “He formed a small number of words or partial words.  And he processed my responses.  It was perhaps the simplest conversation in which I have ever been involved, but it _was_ a conversation by the fundamental definition.”

      “That’s all good.  Very good.  He’s not going to remember any of it, probably, same thing for most of the other times he’s likely to come around until he’s fully ready to stay conscious, but it sounds like his brain is doing the things it should, at least to some degree.”

      “Are there any predictable patterns at this point?  Expectation for time or…”

      “Nah, I wish there were.  He could come in and out for a few days, he could pull himself together tomorrow.  And when he does stay with us, he could still experience confusion, anxiety… or not.  As much as we are thankful in our personal lives that all people are unique, it’s miserable when you’re their doctor.”

      “I understand completely, John.  I presume that our only recourse is to continue to wait.”

      “Welcome to the joy of hospital life.  In some ways, the ones in the beds have the easier time.”

      “For now, perhaps.  I am quite certain Gregory will not be as pleasant as his normal demeanor when he begins to absorb the severity of his situation and the pains it involves.”

      “And I’m quite certain your heart is going to break every time you see how badly he’s hurting, how frustrated he is with his progress…”

      “Yes… point taken.”

      “I won’t lie to you, Mycroft.  It’s going to be a hard road back, for both of you.  Still sure you want the front-row seat.”

      “There exists no question in my mind as to what I want.”

      “Good.  Now, is there any possibility you’ll get a little rest yourself?  You’re starting to look like I need to book you a bed, too.”

      “Do you know, John, I believe Sherlock is quite wrong when he says your sense of humor is underdeveloped.”

      “You two should take your show on the road.”

      “Perhaps we shall.  And you, John?  There is no reason why you cannot return to sleep for another few hours, at least.”

      “No, I’m up.  I want to update Greg’s chart and check on a few things.  And besides, Sherlock is awake already and spying on our conversation, so I’ve lost my pillow.”

      “I am not awake.”

      “I bet Greg was more convincing than that.”

Sherlock cracked an eye and John was fairly sure it snorted at him.

      “Then I _did_ understand correctly that Lestrade demonstrated consciousness.”

      “Briefly, but yeah, he did.  Talked to Mycroft, too.”

      “Well, that was a profound waste of his groundbreaking experience.”

      “I do not think you would find Gregory in agreement, Sherlock.  Were he able to remember our words, of course.”

      “Oh?  Was the conversation of that degree of interest?”

      “That is rather for me to know and you never to find out.”

      “Mycroft had declared himself, John.  I may be ill.”

      “I have not admitted to that!”

      “Well, it doesn’t count anyway, since Greg won’t remember it.  So, the best we can say is you had a dress rehearsal.”

      “Now, see here…”

      “Do not encourage him, John.  If he decides to proclaim his affections for Lestrade repeatedly I may intercept some of the offending words and the brain damage I shall suffer will likely be debilitating.  We shall have to rely on your vague and intermittent hours at the clinic for our livelihood.”

      “What’s going on?  Is Greg ok?”

Sherlock, John and Mycroft all paused to admire the sight of a very sleepy Arthur Shappey squirm out of his Skipper's arms and stare at them with tossled hair and extremely heavy eyelids.

      “Gregory is fine, Arthur.  In fact, he achieved a small bout of wakefulness just a few moments ago.”

Arthur disproved the idea that instantaneous transport was impossible because there could have been no time lag between Mycroft’s pronouncement and Arthur being on his feet, eyes wide and mouth open in shock.

      “GREG WAS AWAKE!  BRILLIANT!  SKIP BRILLIANT!  Oh my… this is like a mountain, a real mountain of Toblerones, the white ones!, that kittens play around with little balls of string… Did he say anything?  What did he do?  Are there photos?  Did someone… WHY DON’T WE HAVE A VIDEO CAMERA?  Oh!  My phone does that… here take my phone and video it if Greg wakes up and I’m not here.  But I want to be here, so give me back my phone and I’ll tape it myself and save it to look at later.  Was he ok?  Really… was Greg ok?”

Martin was now awake and ran his hand along Arthur’s back to settle him down, while Arthur fought against the soothing and vibrated like a tuning fork that had been struck against a tabletop.

      “I shall uptake the responsibility for this conversation, John.  I know you have matters to which to attend.”

      “I owe you one.  Sherlock you want to come along?’

      “I prefer to remain here.”

John would never have said anything, but he adored his partner so much in that moment, as Sherlock sat, trying to appear aloof, but keeping one eye solidly on Lestrade’s sleeping form.

      “Alright.  I shouldn’t be long.”

John left the impending interrogation and what would likely be flurry of activity centered around Lestrade’s impending return.

      “Ok… I need all the details Mycroft.  ALL of them.  Don’t hold any back.  Oh!  My camera…”

Arthur pulled his camera out of his pocket and gripped it like a magical talisman.

      “… I have to be ready to take pictures or film Greg when he wakes up again.”

      “Whereas that is a very generous gesture, Arthur; I am not certain that Gregory would appreciate being the subject of a video while he was in an altered state.”

      “I think it would be an act of justice, after all, Lestrade has a video of _me_ in an altered state.”

      “Well, you _were_ a careless boy to be taken advantage of by Ms. Adler, weren’t you?”

      “Can I see it?”

      NO!”

      “Of course, Arthur.  I will make a copy available to you to watch.  I believe you will find it highly amusing.”

      “Brilliant!  But we need a video of Greg, too.  We have to be sure, Mycroft, that anything Greg says… you know… _anything_ he says… we can make sure he _knows_ he said.”

      “Good Lord, you do wink in an astonishingly original fashion, don’t you?”

      “I do!  And I think you’re the first person to ever know what I was doing without being told.  It must be wonderful being so smart.”

      “Don’t feed his ego, love.”

      “And don’t feed him cake, either.”

      “Ah… the dulcet sounds of family affection.”

      “Really, Skip, Mr. Sherlock… you should be nicer to Mycroft.  He does rule… everything… and is smart and nice and…”

The combined groan from Martin and Sherlock nearly rattled the walls.

      “Listen not to the naysayers, Arthur.  If their behavior continues, they will suffer their own punishment.  Perhaps a reminder about the _owl incident_.”

Arthur was certain he had never seen his Skipper and his Mr. Sherlock go quite to still.

Now, why don’t you see about securing Martin his morning meal?  I do believe he has a flight today.”

      “Owls!  I love owls! They’re beautiful and wise and they have the cutest little owl babies that look like big balls of fuzz.  Can we talk about the owls?

The combined air pressure from the in-stereo _NO!_ pushed the astonished Arthur out of the room to race off and ask the cafeteria staff if he could make breakfast for his Skip.  They had been quite willing to allow him to take a corner of the kitchen and make small snacks and meals, mostly because watching Arthur in their kitchen was a surprisingly bright spot to their normal dreary routine.

      “Look here, Mycroft.”

      “Hoot.”

      “Don’t do that!  And… don’t tell Arthur stories about me.  He’s got enough stories about me on his own to last forever.”

      “Settle yourself, Martin.  I would not choose to sully the brave and stalwart image that your fiancé holds of you.  At least not without sufficient provocation.”

Sherlock’s strangled shout was matched only by Martin’s sputtered attempts to protest.

      “What do you mean his fiancé?”

      “Oh, hadn’t you heard?  Martin will be offering his hand in marriage to our Arthur in the very near future.”

      “I have never said that!”

      “It is no use trying to hold fast to your little secret, Martin.   In fact, you should be enlisting our aid in preparing the appropriate speech to present when you make your proposition.  You were never one for word craft, so do leave that to those who are more suited to the task.  I shall script you something very appropriate for the occasion.”

      “If Martin leaves that to you, he will sound as if he is suffering from some form of terminal constipation and frighten Arthur with the stiffness of his declaration.  You have no passion, Mycroft.”

      “Oh, and are you implying that you do?”

      “My passions are none of your concern.  I was, however, to remark that John should be consulted for such an endeavor.  While his prose is extraordinarily purple, that will likely appeal to Arthur’s sense of romance.”

      “John, I suspect, believes that grammar is a river in some region of Scandinavia.”

      “Oh, and that is what makes a proposal speech memorable – good grammar?”

      “It most surely cannot be troglodytic!  That would be insulting to Arthur!”

      “John is not a troglodyte!”

      “You termed his writing ‘an egregious affront to the English language.’  On multiple occasions!”

      “I HAVE NEVER SAID I WAS PROPOSING TO…”

      “Look what I found!  The nurses had muffins and they let me have some!  Oh… why does everyone look like they swallowed a whole egg with the shell on?”

      “…’cause bastards…”

Four grown men flew towards the hospital bed like kids racing for the last cap in their favorite color and pushed and shoved just as forcefully to be first to the prize.

      “Gregory?  Gregory, my dear… are you visiting us, again?”

      “GREG!  Oh, Greg… can you say something else?  Because you really shouldn’t be saying bad words, even though you’re probably not actually knowing you’re saying bad words, but this is a hospital, so you have to talk like you’re in church.”

Mycroft was very happy he was holding onto the rail of the bed because his knees turned to water seeing Gregory’s familiar smile slide across his face.

      “…s’rry…”

      “I believe the fucking staff might forgive you this once, my dear.”

Mycroft ignored Sherlock’s and Arthur’s stunned gasp, and Martin’s rather embarrassed titter and focused only on his Gregory’s growing smile and well-remembered wicked giggle, though it was softer and wetter that was usual.

      “…’re a bad man, Mycroft.”

      “And you adore it, my dear.”

      “… yeah…”

      “Greg!  Are you hurting?  Do you need water?  Have you been having dreams?  Do you need Mr. Snowball to sleep with you?  I have muffins, do you want one?  Are…”

      “Arthur, love… I don’t think Greg can answer if you don’t actually leave him a gap to jump into.”

      “Oh!  I’m sorry!  I’m just so excited.  And look!  He’s watching me, so he knows it’s me talking and his brain’s not muddled and that’s absolutely brilliant!”

Mycroft watched his Detective Inspector’s eyes crinkle listening to Arthur’s ebullience and couldn’t stop his hand reaching over to run his fingers through the silvery strands of hair laying limply on Lestrade’s forehead.

      “Do you think you can stay awake this time, my dear?  There are very glad tidings to share GOOD HEAVENS!  Sherlock was right, Martin… you do possess a fierceness of kick.”

      “Mycroft, I swear to you a kick will not be your biggest worry if you don’t shut up immediately.”

      “Do you hear how I am treated when you are not awake to protect me, Gregory?  If for only that you must remain with me for I cannot defend myself for much longer against the slings of scorn and arrows of derision that are setting me as their target.”

      “Tryin’…”

      “Leave Lestrade to rest, Mycroft.  Just because you are besotted with him does not entitle you to monopolize his attention when it should be turned entirely to his own healing.”

      “But, Mr. Sherlock!  Doctor Watson said the longer he can stay awake every time the better it is for Greg.”

      “But if he is simply to view my brother’s moon-like face looming in his field of view, there will be more damage than good done to his condition.”

      “Is it even possible for you to be supportive, Sherlock or do you have an allergy to kindness?”

      “No, but I do have an allergy to prattle, which is why I must carry antihistamines whenever I am in your vicinity.”

      “Skip!  Mr. Sherlock!  No arguing in front of Greg!”

Not that his dear Gregory was hearing a word of it, Mycroft had noticed.  He had fallen back into sleep with a smile on his lips, listening to the familiar bickering that marked their family dynamics.

      “Arthur is correct, that is quite enough.  Martin, you need to make ready to leave for the airfield.  Sherlock, you need to return Arthur to his home so that he may bathe and change his attire.  And you should do the same, for I shall not have Gregory’s nasal passages assaulted by the stench of fermentation that is beginning to waft from your direction.”

      “I shall accede only for the purpose of promoting Arthur’s comfort.”

      “Very good.  You should also return with fresh garments for John.  I am doubtful that he will wish to leave here until Gregory is more securely on this side of the veil.”

      “But I don’t want to go home!  I want to stay here with Greg!  He might need something or want to talk to someone and you might be busy or napping and I can work on more pictures and…”

      “Arthur, you will be returning as soon as you have cleaned and redressed yourself; I am not exiling you from the building.  Now, the sooner you accomplish your ablutions, the sooner you shall return.”

      “Oh!  Brilliant!  Fast… I can move very fast when I have to.  Just watch…”

Mycroft watched what more resembled a man trying to escape a weasel that had mistaken him for a field mouse, but it wasn’t long before Arthur had gathered whatever belongings he wished to bring home and presented himself to stand at attention at Sherlock’s side.

      “I am ready to depart.”

      “Martin, are you absolutely certain you wish to ask… DAMN IT ALL!  Keep your metallic toes to yourself!”

      “Skip, quit kicking people.  They are not footballs.”

      “Arthur, when they stop acting like their big heads are filled with nothing but air, I’ll consider it.”

      “Silly Skipper!  If your head was just filled with air, it would hardly weigh anything and every time you went to scratch your nose or something it would bob around every which way like one of those little dolls with their heads on springs.  Come on, Mr. Sherlock.  I want to be back as soon as I can so I can be here when Greg wakes up again.”

Arthur grabbed Sherlock and Martin’s hands and marched them out of the room, leaving Mycroft alone with his Gregory.

      “…’veryone gone?…”

Mycroft’s head whipped around to look down at the groggy man grinning upwards at him.

      “Gregory Lestrade, were you shamming?”

      “Ummm…. maybe…”

      “That was devilish of you, my dear.  But quite well played.”

Mycroft knew that if his world ever crashed down around his feet, all he would need to see was his Gregory’s smile and all of that would cease to matter.  He lifted the hand that was not attached to the IV and placed a kiss across Lestrade’s knuckles.

      “I have missed you, Gregory.”

      “H…how long?”

Mycroft drew a chair closer to the bed and sat, still holding Lestrade’s hand.

      “A few days.  However, you needed the rest.  You _need_ the rest.”

      “Pfft…’ollocks”

      “Case in point.  You cannot even properly curse.”

      “Wh… what happened?”

John had said that it was common for victims of such a heinous act to have no memory of the actual act itself and Mycroft considered, briefly, keeping Lestrade ignorant of his fate for at least a while longer.  However, he also knew it would not be something for which he would be thanked.

      “Do you remember being shot?”

Mycroft could not miss the change in tempo of the sounds from the heart monitor.

      “Shot?  I was…”

Lestrade was becoming agitated and Mycroft quickly leaned closed and ran his fingers across Lestrade’s cheek.

      “It is alright, Gregory.  You are safe.  No one can reach you here and no one will ever have the chance to harm you again.”

      “It… Edgar was there…”

      “He was.  And he was the one who pulled the trigger.”

      “Arth… Arthur?”

Mycroft was keenly aware of the escalating anxiety on his Gregory’s face and the increasingly labored breathing.

      “He is perfectly well.  He followed your directives to the letter and his presence was never known.  You kept him safe, Gregory.  And he repaid you by keeping you alive; it was Arthur who maintained your life until we arrived.  So do not worry about his well-being, my dear.  He is perfectly fine and had been happily engaged in creating the majesty you see around you.”

Mycroft wiped the moisture that was running out of the corner of Lestrade’s eyes and moistened a cloth to cool the skin that had grown flushed as Lestrade’s emotions started to rise.

      “What… what’s the damage?”

Not an area of conversation Mycroft wanted to enter, but if conversation was keeping Lestrade awake, Mycroft would persevere.

      “You were shot twice in the chest.  I… it occurs to me now that I have not asked John the caliber of the bullet he removed from you.  I have been quite remiss in many things of late…  As for the physical damage, you will need to speak with John for the details, but he has assured me that with hard work and effort, you shall recover well.  A return to work is entirely possible, so do not worry that you shall be unable to resume your career and you will be provided with every possible assistance to facilitate that recovery, so you should also have no worry that your recuperation will not be tended to in the most efficient and expedient fashion.  I am well aware that you will not wish to carry any weakness from this incident a moment longer than you must.”

      “How l…long?”

      “Until you return to work?”

The slight nod and renewed shine in the Detective Inspector’s eyes tugged at Mycroft’s heart.  Nothing could be worse for his Gregory than feeling that he was useless and he _would_ feel that way until he was fully back taking up his share of responsibility for the public good.

      “I will not lie to you, my love.  It will be a very long time.  Though I do not have details, John was visibly shaken by the amount of harm done to you.  You were physically shattered by the impact of the bullets, lost a great deal of blood and were… you were laying there on the ground for an extended period with Arthur… you must pardon me a moment...”

Mycroft turned his face and struggled to control his own emotions that had broken through as his memory traced over images that were searing in intensity.  It was only the light tug on his hand that drew him back and to face the equally intense emotions on his Gregory’s face.

      “I am so sorry, my dear.  It is because of me that you suffered this and I was not there… you were vulnerable and I did not see it.  I allowed you to come to _harm_.  I… I nearly lost you, Gregory and that thought fills me with a fear I have never experienced.  A fear and a sorrow I cannot fully express.  I saw you there, on the ground, surrounded by a halo of your own blood and I felt myself dying alongside you, hoping that if you passed to the other side, I would go with you, if only to beg your forgiveness.  And here you are, alive and well, and I… I simply cannot bring myself to ask for you to forgive me.  I do not deserve it.  I shall _never_ deserve it, but I feel as if I cannot draw a full breath without your absolution.  Know that I will work to earn it, Gregory.  I do not expect you to grant it without first extracting my blood and tears as yours were drawn from you, but I will accept any punishment, suffer any neglect or hate if it will one day earn me that forgiveness.  Oh… I do apologize…”

Mycroft saw wet droplets fall onto Lestrade’s hand that he seemed unable to release.

      “…say it…”

How could Mycroft say what he felt now that he had made such a fool of himself?

      “Gregory, do not ask this of me.  Not now.  I have behaved so shamefully.”

      “Tell me…”

      “Gregory…”

      “I love y..you.”

Mycroft marveled at how readily the words came to his Gregory’s lips, even when alert and aware.  What could he have done to deserve this?

      “Gregory, I…”

The one second Mycroft waited was a second too long and he watched in horror as Lestrade’s eyes hardened and he began to drag his hand away.

      “NO!  Gregory… no, I beg of you.  You must know this is… it was easier when I knew you would not remember…”

To see his Gregory struggle to turn away, only able to easily move his head since the rest of his body refused to obey, was heartbreaking.  Mycroft reached out and delayed only a moment before gently turning Lestrade’s face back towards himself.

      “You have woken before and we spoke… much was revealed from both of us but now… I find myself feeling presumptuous… unworthy, really, of speaking the words you wish to hear.  It is not that I do not feel them…

      “Th…then say them.”

Mycroft looked deeply into his Gregory’s warm eyes and began to feel his hesitation fade away.

      “You _have_ waited long enough haven’t you?  Stayed patient through pains no one should ever have to endure.  Very well… I love you, Gregory Lestrade.  I think that I have for a very long time.  Maybe, at first, not in such a way that I would offer you my name, but I have held you in my heart, in your own special place, since we first met.  You have been a companion I could term a friend and you have been a man I could desire and be desired in return.  I do love you, my dear, and I can find that no time in my life have I have been as happy as when I have been in your company and though we have shared little in the way of physical love, what we _have_ enjoyed has profoundly impacted me and I find myself craving your touch in any way I can receive it.  I had despaired of ever having you in my bed, but laying with you, even innocently, was more rewarding than… I want you home, Gregory.  I want you in our home, in our bed… I want to see you in the morning, rumpled by sleep and in the evening, fatigued from a long day of service that I so well understand.  I want to be with you as you overcome this challenge and continue with you when you are well and hale and enjoy each year of your renewed health.  I want to battle over your books scattered throughout the house and listen to you rage as I again must forsake your company at our table for some matter whose import is greater than us both.  I have had much time to think, my dear, and cannot see a contented future for myself unless you stand at its core.  If you wish me to say ‘I love you,’ Gregory, I will do it.  I will do it now, I will do it before our family, I will do it every day of our long and, undoubtedly, interesting lives.  Does that satisfy, my dear?  If there is more you desire, simply tell me and it shall be yours.  Whatever you require of me you shall have.”

Mycroft looked at the man he loved through a shiny shimmer that persisted until he wiped his eyes.  But, he was gratified to see it wasn’t only his vision that was impaired by a lens of salty water and he took up the towel he had wet and again wiped his Gregory’s face, lingering a moment on the Detective Inspector’s lips.  Lips that still seemed so dry and in need of care, which Mycroft was more than happy to provide as he leaned over and pressed a kiss to Lestrade’s lips, running his tongue lightly over the dry skin that parted to let him take the kiss deeper, which Mycroft did gladly, yet gently, and would have indulged in for a very long time if he hadn’t heard the door open and a small cough announcing they had a visitor.

      “You two need to get a room.”

      “Ah, John… one might say we have taken the parsimonious route and made use of the room we have.”

      “No embarrassing sexual escapades while in hospital.”

      “W…what about ones we… we’re proud of.”

      “You sound completely addled.  I’m going to have to get you back under for a few days.  Maybe then you’ll have your sense of reason operating properly.”

      “You will do nothing to impair Gregory’s state of awareness.  I will not have him misremembering our conversation, for I am certain my constitution could not withstand another baring of my soul.”

Mycroft felt another small tug on his hand and turned back to Lestrade who looked exhausted, yet… well, Mycroft did not want to use the term blissful under the circumstances, but it was the term that fit best.

      “Don’t close off.”

As if that were even an option anymore, but Mycroft could not let any doubt creep into Lestrade’s mind.

      “Of course not, my dear.  For you, I shall be the proverbial open book.  Now, will you allow John to examine you?  He had been quite fervorous about your care.”

The nod he received was all Mycroft needed and he was moving away slightly to permit John greater access to Lestrade.  When he tried to pull away any more than slightly, he met resistance from the hand he still had difficult releasing and it was only through the full glare of military and medical disapproval that he was able to coax Lestrade to release his grip and move more fully away from the bed.  From his vantage point, Mycroft watched John perform a thorough examination and ask Lestrade a wide variety of questions, which garnered some answers that puzzled Mycroft slightly.  It was a full ten minutes later that John nodded to Mycroft to follow him into the hall and it was only that his Gregory seemed to be quickly falling asleep that Mycroft complied.

      “And your judgment, John?”

      “A fuckload better than I would have thought.  I’ll have to buy him a pint when he’s healed because I had a bet with myself that he wouldn’t even be coherent for another few days.”

      “Gregory is not an average man, as I reminded Arthur.”

      “Guess you’re right.  He seems to be doing pretty well, but I’m not ready to become too optimistic yet.  His body is still destroyed, a hundred things could go wrong at any time and he’s on a massive load of painkillers… when we begin to dial those back he’s going to be under a lot of stress.  But… I never thought I’d see Greg at this point in the first place, so I’m going to score it as a win.”

      “You did not seem happy when you were questioning him, however.”

      “No unhappy, exactly; more resigned.  Some areas of memory loss, but there’s no reason to think he won’t get that back once we reduce some of the drug-induced haze and his mind has time to get itself back in order.  Honestly, it’s nothing I wouldn’t have expected… it’s just harder when it’s your friend and they don’t remember the last time you went out to gripe about life and drink yourselves senseless.”

      “But it does not worry you overmuch?”

      “No.  Let’s face it, even if he never regained the few little memories he may have lost, it really doesn’t matter because he’s alive and able to make new ones.”

      “True… and I shall dedicate all that I have to making those memories good ones.”

      “So your tongue down his throat said loud and clear.”

      “Really, John… so vulgar.”

      “Calling it like I see it.  And it’s good for him, actually.  Lots of studies show that physical affection has positive benefits for recovery.  But if I catch you bare-arsed trying to test just how strong is his stamina, I am going to fill you with tranquilizers and bundle you up for Arthur to take home.  Got that?”

      “I shall not even dignify that with an answer.”

      “I’m going to take that as a yes.  And I’m holding you to your word, Mycroft.  You screw him over again and you won’t even have time to ask for mercy before you’re life disintegrates in ways you won’t expect.  Sherlock will gladly help me and we will unravel every thread of your existence until there’s nothing left.”

      “I consider myself duly warned.”

      “Good.  Not get back in there and keep an eye on him.  I suspect this little sleep is just that, and he’ll wake up later remembering what happened this time and probably be ready to talk some more.  I’m going to wager we can keep him going for a solid hour, next time, too.”

      “His progress shall be that sluggish?”

      “For someone I thought would never have a _chance_ at progress, I’d say he’s moving along quick as lightning.  His body was completely depleted, Mycroft, and every time he’s awake he’s using energy he really doesn’t have.   A good hour awake at a time is fine for now.  Give him a day or so and we can look to pushing him further.  I actually expect he’ll be on a fairly regular schedule in a couple of days and… that’s when the real fun starts.”

      “And you are not using the term ‘fun’ in a positive sense, are you?”

      “No, not really.  But nothing good comes easy and… Greg will understand that.  He won’t like it, but he _will_ understand.  That won’t mean he won’t be a complete bastard while recovering.  Be prepared for all sorts of things.”

      “Such as?”

      “Depression, anxiety, frustration, anger…”

      “Oh, the pleasant things in life.”

      “Exactly.  Not to say that’s going to be every day, but… don’t expect the old Greg just to appear tomorrow and grin his way through these next few months.”

      “Forewarned is forearmed.  Do you, however, have any suggestions to make his transition more agreeable?” 

“Don’t mother him too much.  Let him do what he can on his own, even if it’s not a lot and it really hurts you to watch him try.  Be encouraging and optimistic, but realistic, too.  Don’t try paint too rosy a picture of what’s going on.  He’ll know you’re lying and start to resent you for it.  Never forget that it’s _his_ life… don’t leave him out of the picture when making decisions and DO NOT talk to any nurses or physical therapists like he’s not even in the room.  When he’s down, just be there for him, when he’s angry, let him rage, but make him talk about it afterwards.  It’s ok to give him goals to look forward to and do special little things for him, but don’t overwhelm him.  He’s going to feel very guilty and think of himself as a burden anyway, so don’t compound the situation by appearing to be focusing yourself entirely on him.  Tell him about your day, at least what you can… take care of yourself, do the things you’d normally do at home… make him feel like you care, but aren’t martyring yourself for him.  He’ll hate that and it will just deepen his guilt and depressive bouts...”

      “Goodness.  I don’t suppose you would be so kind as to write all of that down for me.  A bulleted list would be helpful, but it is not wholly necessary.”

      “HAH!  Don’t worry, Mycroft.  Actually… actually, I think you’ll do fine.  Just listen to what your head is telling you and, I really never thought I would say this, let it overrule your heart now and then.  You’ll hear the same thing from his support staff, so I don’t think you need a pocket reference card to keep in your wallet.  Plus, I will happily give you a bruising refresher course if I think you’re cocking things up too badly.”

      “How…comforting.”

      “As it should be.  Now, let me get a nurse, I want to get some samples to send down to the lab.  You, uh, might want to wait out here for a while.”

      “I resent the implication that I cannot handle basic truths about Gregory’s medical care; however, I do have a few matters to attend to and they are probably best done without an audience.”

      “Sounds mysterious.”

      “Not really, I simply need to restore my presence to certain issues and… I have a rather important telephone conference in which to engage.”

      “Well good luck.  We won’t be long.”

__________

Mycroft made the necessary calls to permit outside contact for _certain_ levels of importance and set in motion the gathering of all supplies and equipment that would be required for Lestrade’s recuperation.  None of it was to be delivered, however, until specifically instructed.  As of now, Mycroft’s home was not ready to receive its new resident, but that situation would soon be rectified.

      “Hello?”

      “Ah, Edgar… how good it is to hear your voice.”

      “Mycroft!  I was beginning to worry, darling.  I know you would be away a few days, but…”

      “I know, and you must be aware you have my apologies.  It is just that… we suffered rather a disturbance to our little holiday.  Young Arthur is especially upset by the turn of events and I have had to dedicate a great deal of attention to him to remediate his distress.”

      “Arthur… that’s the little boy of whom you are so very fond, correct?”

If he had ever held out one small thought of making Edgar’s penance a survivable one, it vanished with the hint of petulant menace Mycroft heard in the man’s voice.

      “Arthur is one to inspire adoration, much as one adores a small or infant animal.  However, he is of no consequence beyond making my cousin happy and one does what one must for family.”

      “Well, it is inconsequential, since, I assume, you are soon to return to London.  Surely, you cannot bear being away in that dull area with, oh lord, tell me Sherlock is not still in attendance…”

      “Both he and John seem quite happy to receive a free holiday at my expense.  However, I should be no longer than a few days more.  Perhaps you might set about planning something nice for my return.  A night out or in… I leave it up to you to decide.”

      “How wonderful!  I shall plan something very rewarding to celebrate.  And Mycroft… I may have an extra surprise for you, one I think you will greatly appreciate.”

      “Do you now?  May I receive even a small hint as to its nature?”

      “You truly do not like surprises, do you?  Very well, I shall tell you this… it is something that will make it much easier for us to, how shall I put it, _further_ our relationship.  I am quite excited about it and I simply know you will be, too.”

      “Oh, my anticipation now will be quite difficult to contain.”

      “Excellent.  More reason for you to think about me, not that you need it, do you, my darling?”

      “Your existence is more than enough for me to turn my thoughts ever in your direction.  Especially now.”

      “How romantic!  Well, I must be off; I have a fitting in half an hour and you know how traffic can be this time of day.”

      “Indeed.  Enjoy your day, Edgar.  I look very forward to seeing you soon.”

      “As do I, Mycroft.  I love you madly, you know.”

      “And I love you madly, also.  Goodbye, my darling.”

Mycroft wondered if it was possible to sterilize an electronic device for he was quite certain he never wanted to touch his mobile ever again.  Perhaps a few sanitizing cloths would suffice for now…

      “M…Mycroft?”

Arthur and Sherlock were standing a short distance away, Arthur’s face quite similar, Mycroft was sure to how it would appear if his beloved dog met a fatal end at the hands of an automobile.

      “All is not as it appears, Arthur, I promise you that.  Consider this… the final act of my little play.”

      “You didn’t mean any of that, right?  Not one bit.  Not one tiny little ladybug bit.  Not a bit even smaller than the tip of one piece of Mr. Snowball’s fur.  I can’t… I can’t believe you could even say those things to him!”

Mycroft admired his brother greatly for putting his arm around Arthur and drawing him close.  Perhaps only for John and young Arthur could Sherlock let this side of himself show, but that was so much more than Mycroft had ever thought possible.

      “I did not mean a single word of that conversation, Arthur.  Like reading a script of a one of your films, is perhaps a good description.  My words had to be convincing and appropriate, else the story would not be believable.  And he greatly needs to believe that you are not a threat to him and that he still holds, so far as he know it, my affection.  Besides… how could I possibly tell Edgar I loved him when Gregory has already stolen those very words from me today?”

      “You… you told him?  When… was he awake?”

      “Most certainly.”

      “And… did he…”

      “Reciprocate?  Yes.”

Arthur jumped the space between Sherlock and Mycroft in one leap and gave Mycroft the largest bear-hug he could muster.

      “BRILLIANT!  Oh my… Mr. Sherlock!  It’s official!  This is… HURRAH!  I can’t stop dancing!”

Both Sherlock and Mycroft tried to figure out how Arthur could keep his upper half still to hold tightly to Mycroft’s body, but have his legs fly about as if they were trying to stamp out a storm of ants.

      “Skip is going to be so happy!  I can’t wait to tell him!  Does Doctor Watson know?”

      “I do believe he has some idea, yes.”

      “Is Greg awake now?  Can I go and talk to him?”

      “Not quite yet, I’m afraid.  John is performing his witchery on Gregory and he was just awake not long ago.  I suspect we shall hear from him again in not too many hours, however.”

      “Super!  Mr. Sherlock – the keys.  I have to go shopping.”

Sherlock jammed his hands in to his pockets and stared at Arthur with his usual skepticism to anyone’s request that he do _anything_.

      “For what?”

      “Cake!  And balloons!  And… more cake!  And maybe I can even get a nice tin of those biscuits Mum only puts out when the posher clients fly with us.  We have to celebrate!”

      “Eating cake is hardly a celebration for Mycroft.  It is more a means of basic sustenance.”

      “One day, Mycroft is going to take you over his knee, Mr. Sherlock, and I won’t let you come running back to me for a rub to make it feel better.”

Mycroft had to turn and walk away down the hall to salvage his dignity, followed closely by Sherlock, who dropped the car keys into Arthur’s hand, as he struggled to keep a straight face on until out of sight.

      “We are well blessed, aren’t we, Sherlock?”

      “And soon to be greater blessed as the family register adds a new member.  If only we could _purge_ the rosters as easily.”

      “How true.  Now, we must encourage Martin to declare his intentions.  He is rather inept about anything that involves confrontation, whether pleasant or not, and could easily seek to avoid the issue entirely.”

      “Don’t meddle, Mycroft.”

      “I do not intend to _meddle_.  I intend to provide positive encouragement to our slightly awkward cousin.  After all, it is not until the announcement is made that we can begin planning the logistics and I have full intentions that the logistics will be quite… astounding.”

      “And what is wrong with a simple ceremony?”

      “Is that what you plan for John?”

      “We are not talking about me.”

      “Perhaps we should be.”

      “John and I do not have plans to marry.”

      “At this time.”

      “As you say.”

      “But you are not averse to the idea.”

      “Did you forget the fact that we are not talking about me?”

      “No matter.  It shall not be _you_ accomplishing the planning and implementation, anyway.  I shall conference with John when the occasion arises.”

      “You will not…”

      “The matter is settled, Sherlock.  You will be the dutiful bridegroom and do nothing more than present yourself, properly dressed, at the correct location at the appointed hour.  I shall handle the details with input from your other half.   Now, would you care to see if your other half has completed his examination?  I am certain he has grieved the loss of your presence this past… hour and a quarter.”

      “This is all making you supremely happy, isn’t it, you busybody?”

      “I do believe it is.  And I shall enjoy that feeling a bit longer until less pleasant tasks foul my demeanor.”

Sherlock looked at his brother and read what he felt was welcome news in his brother’s eyes.

      “Then it will be soon.”

      “Quite.  Gregory had a prolonged period of wakefulness while you and Arthur were absent.  If he can do that on a more regular and predictable basis, I will not be so averse to leaving him, say, for a day to attend to business.”

      “You will remember our agreement.”

      “I do not intend to forget.  But that is a matter for another time.  Now, let us visit with Gregory and John.  Pleasant things, Sherlock… enjoy the pleasant things for now.  Take time to count our blessings.”

      “And soon there will be cake.”

      “Yet another little blessing to count.”


	40. The Carrying Forward of Intentions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little short, but consider it as paving the way for the next one...
> 
> And, as always, my gratitude for all of the wonderful encouragement for this piece!

      “I ate too much cake.”

Arthur was lying on the floor of Lestrade’s hospital room, hands clutching his stomach, but a look of pure bliss on his face.

      “Is that a complaint?”

      “No, Mr. Sherlock, it is not.  Having too much cake is like having too much air.  You just can’t.  It’s not possible.  Unless it’s a tornado.  Then you can have too much air, but I don’t think you can really have a cake tornado.  I’m pretty sure I would have seen it on the telly if a cakenado had hit somewhere and believe me, I would have asked Skip if we could bring his van and get some of the free cake.  _Are_ there cakenados, Mycroft?”

      “Notice how Arthur acknowledges your expertise in the area?”

      “Thank you, Sherlock.  No, Arthur, I do not believe there are.  I have yet to be apprised of any property damage inflicted by high-velocity buttercream.”

      “But you’ll let me know, right?”

      “You shall be the first I notify and I shall leave orders to the emergency responders to allow you and cousin Martin into the affected area to spirit off as much cake as Martin’s van can manage.”

      “Really?  Thanks, Mycroft!  That’s brilliant!  I’ll start saving containers, because Skip would probably be a bit cross if I just shoveled cake into the back of his van, which I don’t really understand because if he needed a snack, he could just run his finger across the roof and he’d have a mouthful of cake!”

      “It _would_ seem efficient, yet that has never been cousin Martin’s area of strength.”

      “That’s ok.  If I start now, I can collect lots of containers so I’ll be ready for your call.  Though it may be a day or two before I want any more cake.  Or biscuits.  Or juice.  I love a celebration…”

And it _had_ been a celebration.  Arthur had outdone himself, and even brought a large bouquet of balloons each one patterned with a different animal so he heavily resembled Noah carrying a floating ark in his hand.  And the fact that Lestrade had slept through it wasn’t important because Arthur had filmed the entire proceedings with his phone’s camera, making John, Mycroft and Sherlock each give Lestrade a personal message and it only took a small bit of scolding to get Sherlock to say something that wasn’t _entirely_ inappropriate.  As soon as his stomach deflated, Arthur planned on reviewing his video and seeing if he could cut some of his photographs into his recording to make a super-special video presentation for Greg to watch when he woke up again.  At least he knew that this was just normal sleep and not hurt sleep, which really didn’t look any different, but if Doctor Watson said it was, he wasn’t about to question it.  And it was _better_ sleep.  It meant that Greg was getting well and he wouldn’t die again, well, not for a very long time, and they’d get to do all of the things Arthur wanted to do with him and Mycroft and Skip and everything would be brilliant and super and…

      “Arthur?  Have you finally succumbed to an osmotic imbalance from your over-excessive sugar consumption?”

      “Hmmm…. Mr. Sherlock, you know you’re just talking nonsense.”

      “Oh very good, Arthur.  You _are_ learning Sherlock’s ways, aren’t you?”

      “Sorry, Sherlock, I’ve gotta side with your brother on this one.”

      “I have been cast adrift, even by John, who is now identified as a villainous traitor.  Very well, I have no issue living in expatriation.”

      “You know… I don’t think we’ve ever flown there.  Is it nice?”

      “I have no idea, Arthur, but I am certain to find out. And on that note, I do need to tend to a few items of importance.  John, kindly maintain the peace while I am absent.”      

      “Sorry, but I was planning on heading back to the house for a little while.  Get my own self cleaned up and get on a computer for a bit to start brushing up on what I’ll be doing for the next few months.  I’m going to assume you’ve already got a stockpile of equipment ready to go and I’ve got to remember how to use some of it.”

      “Mr. Sherlock, why don’t you go with Doctor Watson and spend some boyfriend time together.  You haven’t had that for awhile and I know how important it is to get plenty of boyfriend time.  I’ll watch Greg; I mean, it’s not like he’s going to be a lot of fuss and I have the button I can push if something happens or I can just yell very, very loudly which I’m quite good at if I do say so myself.”

      “Well, Sherlock?  Fancy coming back with me for some _boyfriend time_?”

The meaning of John's wink wasn't precisely clear to Sherlock, who squinted to focus better on the doctor's face.

      “Are you referring to…”

      “Yes, yes I am.”

That cleared the matter up quite successfully, and much to Sherlock's delight, though the depth of the delight would have to wait for a more appropriate time to be celebrated.

      “Really, John.  There are tender ears present.”

      “Arthur’s a man of the world, Mycroft.  Even if he hasn’t visited expatriation, yet.  Got himself his own boyfriend and everything.”

      “Yes!  And Skip is a great boyfriend!  Our boyfriend time is brilliant!  We watch films and I help Skip build model planes and we read together and play with my puppets and do all sorts of fun things like that.  I’m sure Doctor Watson and Mr. Sherlock have lots of fun things they do, too and they should have some time to do it.”

      “Yeah, Mycroft.  We need time to _do it_.”

      “How ghastly, Doctor Watson.  Arthur, I shall return soon.  Hopefully, to a less sordid atmosphere.”

      “Looks like you’re holding down the fort, Arthur.  Sherlock and I will be back… later.  But do _not_ hesitate to call me if anything changes with Greg.”

      “I won’t!  I’ll let you know right away.  Have fun!”

      “Oh… we plan to.  Right, Sherlock?”

      “I shall leave the planning to you, John.”

      “Oh… you know I like that.  Well come on, I do have to come back here sometime.  Arthur, remember… call if you need me.”

      “Right!  Greg, you hear that!  I’m holding down the fort.  It’s just you and me.  And the telly makes three.  Hurray!”

John pulled Sherlock out of the room, leaving a jubilant Arthur in their wake.  It was the first time he’d been alone with Greg and he had thought it would be awfully hard to handle, but it wasn’t.  It was ok.  Greg was breathing and he wasn’t on the ground in the dirt and there wasn’t blood all over him and running out of his mouth.  And his… that was the one thing Arthur couldn’t see and since no one was in the room, Arthur crept over to Lestrade’s bed and picked up his hand to feel his pulse.

      “…’ycroft’ll get jealous, you holding my hand like that.”

A very large yawn and Lestrade was able to give Arthur a smile that made the young man smile in return.

      “You’re awake!  Oh, and we’ve got lots of cake and biscuits and juice.  And look!  Balloons!  All for you!”

      “Slept through my own party… never did that before.  Least not without… oh sorry, rude of me to keep yawning… a proper work-up to the blackout.  How you doing, Arthur?”

      “Me?  I’m fine.  See?  Nothing wrong with me.”

      “How ‘bout the things I can’t see?”

      “Oh… well that’s all fine, too.”

      “Really?  Remember that I’m the police... trained to pick up on things…”

      “No…that is, yes… it’s better now.  I had… I had a little bit of a hard time, just at first, but…”

      “Still not giving me the full story.”

Arthur worried his fingers, which weren’t actually his since he hadn’t set down Lestrade’s hand, then used his free hand to drag over a chair and took a seat next to the hospital bed.

      “Ok… maybe I’m still a little… I don’t even know what it is!  It’s scared, but not.  Sad, but not really.  Worried, but not quite.  Mad, but that’s not all of it.  I just don’t know!”

      “But there _is_ something.”

      “Yeah… but I’m going to talk to someone and maybe they can figure out what it is.”

      “Good.  Talking’s good.  They’ll probably try and make me do that, too.  So, maybe we can also talk to each other, how does that sound?  You and me… we’re in this together, right?  I mean… the others just don’t understand, do they?”

Lestrade watched Arthur’s eyes widen and his mouth drop.

      “No… no they don’t.  They… they care and they’re so nice, but they don’t.  They really don’t.”

      “ ‘s okay.  I do.  You do.  So we can talk to each other.  You’ve got my number... though, bollocks, did they keep my phone?, anyway you can call me.  Anytime.”

      “I can?”

      “Arthur, you saved my life.  You.  You did that.  There’s no way I can ever thank you enough for that, but it at least earns you unlimited access to my mobile.  Any day.  Any time.  And if you visit, you can come by the flat and…”

      “But that’s not where you live anymore.”

This time, it was Lestrade’s turn to drop his mouth in shock.

      “Run t…that by me again.”

      “Oh.  I don’t know if I should.  I’m not sure if it’s supposed to be a surprise.”

      “Tell me.”

      “Well, Mycroft and Doctor Watson both decided that you need somewhere safe and comfy to heal and your flat isn’t maybe the best place for that, so… you’re going to live in Mycroft’s house.  He’s going to get everything ready and you’ll get the proper care and be with Mycroft all the time, which will make you both very happy and… that _will_ make you very happy, won’t it?”

Now _that_ was a question.  Lestrade was suddenly quite brutally tired and wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep and hope that when he woke up it wouldn’t be to the knowledge that his life was being managed without his input.

      “I dunno.  Could have asked me, c…couldn’t they?”

      “No, they couldn’t.  I mean, you were asleep and they had to make plans to get you well.  It wasn’t as if you could have answered any questions, even if they had asked.  Besides, what’s the problem?  Mycroft’s house is brilliant!  It’s got everything anyone could ever want in a house and I’m sure you’ll get to sleep in one of his big comfy beds and he’ll be able to check on you so he won’t worry and _you’ll_ get checked on all the time so _you_ won’t worry and you can also have fun together, well as much fun as you can have until you’re well, but you can have _some_ fun”

What was the problem?  Mycroft bloody Holmes trying to run his life was the problem…

      “Greg, you look like you’re getting mad and your beepy machine is getting beepier…”

      “I think that Gregory has found a source of mental agitation.”

      “Mycroft!  I thought you had important things to do… not that Greg’s not important, because he is an amazingly important person, but… did you forget your phone?”

      “Rather I forgot to obtain a look at Gregory’s chart to remind myself of the name of the nurse that attends him in the evening.  She provides capable and respectful care and I was going to offer her position in London, along with a lucrative opportunity to provide evening care for Gregory.  I must determine the most qualified staff into which to place Gregory’s support and I believe she would be a quality addition to my roster.  Would you be so kind as to excuse us, my boy?  Perhaps… oh, I have an idea.  Gregory will require toiletries of better quality that they offer in this establishment.  And, perhaps a robe or slippers for his feet?  Something to make him comfortable besides the horrid gown in which he is currently enshrouded.  I trust you to make very considered and appropriate selections.  Here… take this card and consider funds no impediment to your choices.”

      “Shopping?  I love shopping!  And it’s for Greg so that’s brilliant!  Don’t worry, I’ll get lots of good things and when I get back we can work on getting Greg more comfortable.  Because I know that when I don’t brush my teeth or wash my face for even one day I feel rather… icky… so don’t worry, Greg!  I’ll make sure you’re not any icky anymore as soon as I get back.”

Arthur gently set down Lestrade’s hand, then ran across the room to get his jacket before he sprinted out of the door, laughing loudly as he passed Lestrade, who crossed his eyes as his goodbye.

      “Have you been over-exerting yourself, my dear?”

      “Have you been taking over my life, my darling?”

Mycroft sighed deeply and took the chair Arthur had just vacated.

      “No, in short.  In point of fact, you have only to say the word and I shall restructure my plans to accommodate whatever environment you wish for your care.  I had thought it would simply be more beneficial to you to recuperate in a locale with which you were familiar and offered you every amenity.”

      “Because my shitty flat is just a shitty flat.”

      “Because your flat is small for the equipment and staff you will need, especially in the early stages of your recovery.  It is poorly ventilated, which will not be good for your breathing in this condition.  The noise level is unacceptable for the rest you will require and… I cannot easily relocate to your residence.  I am going to be at your side through this, Gregory, and it would be simpler… for both of us… if you were encamped in my home.  Where, I hope, one day, you will be willing to reside permanently.”

Mycroft watched Lestrade stare straight upwards and listened to the tempo of the heart monitor, which was not telling him a pleasant story.

      “Gregory?  I did… I did mention that I wanted you as part of my life.  I was not telling you an untruth…”

      “My life has been dangling from your st…strings for what seems like a lifetime now and… I love you, Mycroft, but I… I need something to trust right now and you making decisions b…behind my back isn’t doing it!”

      “Hush, Gregory… you must be calm.   I will put nothing fully in place without your consent, I promise you.  You should know that John agrees with me, however, and his motives cannot be considered anything but pure and noble.  And… I know that trust is not an easy thing between us at the moment and that I am entirely to blame for the situation, so perhaps… may I offer a token to you?  Something I feel you may appreciate?”

      “W…what?”

Mycroft winced at the heavy sound of that one word.  His Gregory was becoming overtaxed and that was not acceptable, but leaving the conversation at this point was, if possible, even less acceptable.  He would have to hope that he could keep his Detective Inspector quiet as he unfurled his long and distasteful tale.

      “A story.  One that will interest you, I feel.  I only ask that you listen and remain undistressed.  Can you do that for me?”

      “Can’t p…promise anything.”

      “That is fair.  Now, let me begin from the beginning… I believe that would be our night at the opera…”

Mycroft knew that revealing his true purposes to his Gregory would be difficult, but he had not predicted the _degree_ of difficulty as he saw the pain of each word etch itself into his love’s eyes and felt his own chest tighten as his report droned on.  It was with great relief that his story met up with the present and his Gregory’s condition had not significantly worsened, though Mycroft poured out a small amount of ice water and pressed a large sliver of ice into Lestrade’s mouth, followed, in a moment by a tiny sip of cool water.

      “You should have t… told me, you bastard.”

      “As I have been lectured upon previously.  I made the best decision I could at the time, Gregory, based on both practical and selfish concerns.  I thought it was the right decision, the prudent decision… the kind decision… but I concede that I may have demonstrated poor judgment on the issue.  I did not predict, could not have predicted, that you would ever have returned to that particular book shop…”

      “Because poor lads have n…no business there?”

      “Gregory, I will not stand for that.  You know better and are simply trying to be difficult.  I did not think you would return there, because… because it seemed a place that we would only visit again together.”

Lestrade’s eyes turned to focus fully on Mycroft and it was a moment before he again spoke.

      “So… what now?  You… christ, you’re g…going to stay with him, a…aren’t you?  You have to for…”

Mycroft snatched up Lestrade’s hand and ran his other up to caress his Detective Inspector’s cheek.

      “No… no, Gregory, I am not.  Do not become upset over a misperception.  I will not return to him, save for once.  And that will be a meeting from which only one of us will depart.”

Lestrade’s head shook slightly back and forth and Mycroft wished he couldn’t see the obvious effort the small motion required.

      “Don’t.  He’s n…not worth it.”

      “No, my dear, but you are.  He has committed an unpardonable sin and I will ensure he pays the full price for his actions.  A price set and exacted by me.”

      “I can’t let you… Mycroft… I’m a… a…pol…”

Lestrade’s breathing was becoming more labored and Mycroft’s concern grew.

      “You may uphold the law, Gregory, but I _wield_ it and it strikes where and how I choose to thrust.  There are no ramifications about which you need worry.”

      “No… it’s wrong…”

      “He believes he murdered you, my dear.  And he is pleased with his actions.  He cannot be allowed to exist.  It is as simple as that.”

      “No.”

      “Gregory, you must understand.  He caused you grievous harm, not out of fear or desperation, but because of avarice and ego.  He has no value to humanity.  And he _harmed_ you.  He hoped to end your life and that is, therefore, the fate _he_ deserves.  You shall suffer for an extended period and I will ensure his suffering is as profound, though it will be of much shorter duration than yours.  However, your terminus will be health and a long life, very unlike his.”

Lestrade tried to say something, but the effort seemed too great and settled for another small shake of his head as he felt his eyes becoming too difficult to keep open and Mycroft’s heart was heavy watching his struggle to keep a foot in their argument.  It was not healthy for his Gregory to continue this fight and… perhaps there was a compromise…

      “Very well, my dear.  If it will ease your mind and conscience, I will offer you my word that I will not take my very appropriate act of lethal revenge on Edgar Peterson.  I will not separate his life from his body and, instead, find a punishment that involves other measures.”

      “T…trial.”

      “That I cannot offer you.  A trial could expose far too much of what cannot be exposed.  However, men have met the hand of justice many times without the benefit of a trial.   And how wonderful, my dear, that you have remained with me for a lengthy time for this conversation.  It gives me reassurance that I can swiftly implement my measures of repayment for Edgar’s viciousness towards you.  In fact, I shall make the relevant arrangements and perhaps take a day in London tomorrow to, shall we say, get the ball rolling.  I would not leave until I felt your condition was more reliable, but this is evidence that well may be the case.  And it shall just be a single day, well… a day and night if I am to provide myself a margin of error.  I cannot provide you a trial, my love, and I would not want to put Arthur through the stress of testifying even if a trial was feasible, but I can at least accommodate your wishes to some degree.  It is my best that I offer you, Gregory… will it suffice?”

The little nod was all Mycroft needed.  The die was cast and it would not roll favorably for the individual responsible for making that nod a slow and listless one.

      “Then we are agreed.  Can you rest now, Gregory?  You have gone above and beyond your limits, I believe, and I am sure that John will be most angry with me if he finds your health has declined.  I am very proud of you though, my dear.  Your will and your strength are quite formidable.  I feel certain that if I were in your position, I would be quite the pitiful patient.  I hope that I prove, however, a somewhat competent nurse when we finally have you home.  We can take up the discussion of your future domestic situation at a later time, but rest assured that I will see that your flat remains in your possession for as long as it takes for you to recover.  If you choose to return to it after you have healed, it will be waiting for you.”

This little motion was again a shake of the head and the soft “don’t bother” made, again, a tide of emotions rise up in Mycroft; emotions that he forced down so as not give Lestrade any reason for anxiety.

      “As you wish, my dear.  Now, rest.  I love you fiercely, Gregory Lestrade.  And I will do everything within my power to keep you safe and happy.”

And Mycroft watched as his Detective Inspector did rest, closing his eyes fully, but leaving a lingering smile on his lips.  When Mycroft was certain Lestrade was again asleep, he made a flurry of phone calls on his mobile, the last being to his brother.

      “Has there been a change in Lestrade’s condition?”

      “No, he has actually enjoyed a very good day.  However, there has been a change in my timetable and strategy for dealing with our little _problem_.”

      “When?”

      “Tomorrow.  I have secured the use of Martin’s aircraft for the duration, though I have not discussed with him the matter of piloting it.”

      “Must he be involved?”

      “It is better if matters are kept within the family, if at all possible, I believe.  Moreover, he does have a proverbial dog in the fight for the damage done to young Arthur.”

      “I had not considered that line of thought.  He will agree; I will ensure it.”

      “Excellent.  Now, be ready to leave tomorrow morning.”

      “Is anything required on my part in terms of… preparations?”

      “I have that well in hand.  You will, however, require a change of clothing.”

      “Obviously.”

      “Rather.  I shall see you later, I assume?”

      “Naturally.  We shall, however, be a few hours more.”

      “I would hope so.  Never let it be said that a Holmes could not properly satisfy his partner.  If you require a lecture on technique, please give me advanced notice so that I may prepare the appropriate visual aids.”

The terminated call brought an impish grin to Mycroft’s face.  Sherlock really was _so_ easy to discombobulate.  And the time with John would be precious to him, for tomorrow… tomorrow would not be so enjoyable a day…


	41. The Wages of Sin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ongoing and profound gratitude for all comments, kudos, words of encouragement and wonderful insights...

      “You want me to what?”

      “Mycroft has hired your aircraft and you must pilot it.  It is a simple concept.  I do not see a reason for your confusion.”

      “Well, let’s see.  Mycroft has access to practically every plane in the world and he wants GERTI.  How can that not confuse me?”

      “He is choosing the vehicle best suited for his purposes.”

      “Which are?”

      “Elimination of the individual who shot Lestrade and traumatized Arthur.”

Martin had endured a long day.  A flight with an especially-rancorous First Officer, a quick shower and sandwich, then a return to the hospital to sit and hear the story of Arthur’s day of celebration and shopping.  Martin decided that Greg must truly have the patience of a saint if he could suffer Mycroft’s pompous know-it-all attitude _and_ Arthur’s exuberant, though kindhearted, attention.  Having Sherlock drag him into the hallway for a discussion was the crowning glory.  And that discussion was apparently about killing someone.

      “Are you telling me that Mycroft wants to murder that bastard?”

      “If you cannot keep your voice down, I will have to obtain surgical tape and enforce your quiet myself.”

      “Sherlock, you can’t be serious…”

      “I assure you that we are.”

      “We?”

      “Mycroft and myself.  Though I must admit that I am not entirely clear on the exact fate of Mycroft’s errant paramour.”

      “Sherlock…I… I can’t!  I can’t be involved in that!”

      “You _are_ involved, Martin.  It was only luck that Arthur was not seen in the vehicle and I am still impressed that he obediently followed orders and did not follow along outside where he would surely have been slaughtered along with Lestrade.  And the continuing trauma… he will carry this experience forever, Martin and that is not something an individual such as Arthur should ever have to bear.  Edgar must be held accountable for these actions and, I suppose, for the other lives he took in his attempts to secure Mycroft’s nauseating affections solely for himself.”

      “But… that’s what we have courts for, Sherlock!”

      “It would take months, at minimum, to move through those channels.  And do you want Arthur to have to take the stand as a witness?  The _only_ witness?  Do you have any idea what the defense side will do to him?  And the publicity… I can tell you firsthand how irritating that can be, and it will be all the worse for someone like Arthur.  Further, it will take only a single technicality for Edgar to thwart the process and remain a free man, unpunished for his crimes.  Perhaps to turn and take revenge on those who tried to remove his freedom.  Mycroft he could never touch, but Arthur?  Unless you choose to take up residence with my brother, your putative fiancé would be in grave danger and I doubt that Edgar would be so remiss as to leave the job unfinished a second time.”

Sherlock could see the fear and anger replace the reluctance in Martin’s eyes and knew they had their pilot.

      “What do I have to do?”

      “Fly.  The.  Plane.”

      “Don’t be an ass, Sherlock.  If that is at all possible.”

      “Fine.  I do not know what else will be required, though I suspect that it will be little.  All that Mycroft will impart to me is that we shall depart for London tomorrow morning and may not return until the following day.  I have no knowledge of our exact course of action nor any schedule that may be overlaying our plans.  As always, he is attempting to cultivate an air of mystery with his cryptic behavior and succeeding only in appearing childish and ridiculous.”

      “He really hasn’t changed, has he?”

      “Not in the slightest.  At least for that point.  He does smile more, however, though not really in a pleasant way.”

      “You mean that creepy smile he makes that tries to look sincere but tell you he’s lying to your face at the same time?”   

      “The very one.”

      “Nah, that’s old.  He used to practice it in the mirror.”

      “Are you serious?”

      “Caught him at it all the time.  That and the look down his nose even when he’s sitting and you’re standing.  Practiced.”

      “I cannot claim surprise, affected popinjay that he is.”

      “Oh lay off him, Sherlock.  You used to practice standing and looking enigmatic.”

      “I most certainly did not.”

      “You most certainly did.  And with props!  Drama runs in your family.”

      “It is _your_ family, as well.”

      “Only by an accident of sexual misfortune as you were so fond of reminding me.  And I leave the drama to Arthur, anyway.  More than enough to cover my share and his alike.”

      “Ah, it is difficult to argue with that fact.  At least, for him, it is in no way contrived.”

      “Not at all.  Unlike everyone else in the world, Arthur is exactly who he seems to be.  Sherlock… you’re telling me the truth, right?  This _is_ what’s best for Arthur?”

      “The alternative does not bear considering if you, at all, care for him.  And, your cooperation will mean a great deal to Mycroft.  Not that I care about _him_ , but I recognize that it could be important to _you_.”

Little things… Martin had to admit that Sherlock honestly _had_ changed, at least in some ways.  It was easier, for him, knowing Sherlock was truly trying to be a better person.

      “Oh, and I have not investigated the best method to remove bloodstains from all forms of upholstery, so you may wish to supply your aircraft with plastic sheeting.

Though he did have quite a ways to go.

__________

      “London!  You’re going to London!  I want to go to London!  But I can’t leave Greg…  but London!  With Mr. Sherlock and Mycroft!  But, Doctor Watson would be lonely… but getting to do London things!  But Mum said if I go to London in the next decade it will be by floating down the river using her corpse as a raft… but London!”

Martin was getting the feeling Arthur wanted to go to London.

      “Arthur, this is _not_ a pleasure trip.  Sherlock and Mycroft have business to conduct and I’m going to fly them.  We’ll be back before you even know we’re gone.”

      “But, London!”

      “There won’t be any time to even sightsee, love.  Or get lunch or feed ducks or do anything you’d want to do.  I’ll make you a deal, though… I’ll talk to Carolyn and see if we can arrange for a small holiday to London once Greg is situated at Mycroft’s house and he gets a little stronger.  We can even stay at Mycroft’s and help out, if you like, in addition to doing all the things you want to do.”

      “But that won’t be for such a long time…”

      “It won’t be that long and, really, this is going to be a quick trip out and back.”

Arthur was jumping foot to foot, so Martin took Arthur’s arms, put them around his own shoulders and started Arthur dancing around the bedroom, where he’d been trying to persuade Arthur to get a nap after his shower, rather than returning straight to the hospital to sit through the night.

      “And, I’m sure that Mycroft will be much happier knowing that you’re there to care for Greg, since John has all his doctor-y things to do and can’t be there all of the time.  I think Mycroft’s really counting on you… you don’t want to let him down, do you?”

It wasn’t the fairest tactic for Martin to take, but under no circumstances could Arthur come along with them.

      “NO!  I would never do that!  Oh, I guess you’re right.  There won’t be time to really have any fun and Greg _does_ need someone with him.  He’s starting to stay awake longer and wake up more frequently and it would be terrible for him to wake up and be alone with no one to talk to or play games with or give him his ice and remind him that he can’t actually have any alcohol even if he really, really wants it.”

      “See? It’s far more important that you stay here than come along for a boring trip.  I’m not sure if I’ll even be getting off the plane or leaving the airfield.   Sherlock and Mycroft are going to do whatever it is they’re going to do and then we’ll come back and you’ll barely know we’re gone.  And, I tell you what, when I get back, we’ll make Sherlock babysit Greg and you and I take some time and do something together.  Go for a drive or just sit in the park like we like to do.  How does that sound?”

      “Brilliant!  We haven’t been to the park in awhile and I have a new book on frogs and I can make us a snack to bring and if we go walking by the pond we can look for the frogs in my book and…”

      “We can do all of that, Arthur.  I promise.  But I’ve got to get GERTI ready and be prepared for when Sherlock and Mycroft arrive at the airfield.  Are you going to be ok now?”

      “If I say yes, will we have to stop dancing?”

Martin had never put any stock into finding luck in his life, but apparently it was all being saved up for the day he met Arthur Shappey.

      “No, we don’t.  We can dance for as long as you like.”

__________

      “Sherlock, what’s going on and do _not_ lie to me.”

      “Mycroft and I have a matter to resolve in London.  We shall return quickly.  There is no lie in that.”

      “Ok, I’ll play your game.  Sherlock, what’s going on and do _not_ leave out information that you don’t want me to know about this ‘matter’ you have to resolve.  You and Mycroft don’t do anything together!”

      “I admit that is rare we have common cause; however, the situation is not entirely unprecedented if taking across the span of our lifetimes.”

      “Oh, that’s a load of trying to get me off the track.  What is it?  Just tell me what’s going on.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to lay out another trail of syllables for John to follow, but realized the insult to his partner would quickly turn to hurt and that was not allowable.

      “I gave you a very good clue, John.  Consider the ‘common cause’ my brother and I might share…”

John’s confused face was one of Sherlock’s favorites, because it always preceded that blindingly luminous one he wore when all of the pieces finally fell into place.

      “Oh god, you’re going after that bastard Edgar.”

      “Quite.”

Sherlock waited for John’s argument, one he knew would be strikingly similar to Lestrade’s own misgivings.

      “Good.  Need any help?”

Or not.

      “You are not upset?”

      “Why?  Bastard deserves his fate.  I’m not stupid, Sherlock.  There’s no way Mycroft can let him get into the legal system and someone like that can’t be allowed to walk free.  I mean… he had four people killed because of some schoolgirl snit!  And, I’m sure, Mycroft will make sure that whatever level of legal he operates on, if any, is perfectly satisfied by whatever he does.”

      “I had no idea you were such a practical and ruthless man, John.  I find that…”

      “Sexy?”

      “Actually, yes.”

      “Well, keep that in mind and you can show me your appreciation when you get back.”

      “I will.  After a hot shower.”

      “That goes without saying.”

__________

      “Well, I am most honored that you chose to grace me with your consciousness before I departed.”

      “You get paid by the word, don’t you?”

      “And extra for particularly auspicious quips.”

      “We’ll never go hungry.”

That one off-hand ‘we’ll’ punched into Mycroft’s chest and squeezed his heart like a vice.  He had been so close to losing this man…

      “No we shan’t.  And, as soon as John allows you to partake, I shall be happy to supply you with every delicacy that you desire.”

      “And beer.”

      “No.”

      “I counter with yes.”

      “And I quash with no.  And, since I am the only one of us who is ambulatory, my will shall hold sway.”

      “Bollocks.”

      “They shall sway also.”

Nothing in any museum was, to Mycroft, as beautiful as a giggling Gregory Lestrade.  And how unique that Mycroft was able to actually _make_ someone giggle.  Frequently.

      “Bad man.”

      “The very worst, my dear.  And now you are ensnared in my clutches.  Despair for thou shalt never escape.”

      “Can’t anyway.  No pants.”

      “Arthur did purchase you some quite lovely ones, if you are so inclined.  They are richly adorned with cartoonish depictions of a lion cub.”

      “Nah, I’ll enjoy my freedom a bit longer.  You know…”

      “Are your thoughts becoming lascivious, Gregory dear?”

      “Maybe.  Care to _beat it_ out of me. “

If only Mycroft knew that Lestrade thought _his_ giggle was the most beautiful thing in the world…

      “How on Earth did I become enamored of such a predatory creature?”

      “Like attracts like.”

      “Oh, very good.  Very good, indeed.  And I shall further this discussion upon my return.”

Mycroft didn’t miss the slight downturn of Lestrade’s lips, but let the slight bit of concern go unremarked.  This could not be easy for his Gregory, not with his particular suite of morals and Mycroft adored him even more for his strength of character and commitment to his ideals.  Even if that suite of morals and set of ideals did not entirely match with his own.

      “Back soon, right?”

      “Tomorrow morning at the latest, I assure you.  And, with your trust in my word unbroken.”

      “Better be.”

As the number of words Lestrade spoke declined, Mycroft knew his strain and fatigue increased and it was coming quickly.  This issue was obviously upsetting the man more than he was willing to allow to show and Mycroft made a himself a silent promise that this would be the last time his Gregory would have to suffer to this degree.

      “I would not disappoint you, my dear.  Now, return to your rest.  Arthur will be along shortly and I feel confident that he will be most happy if he could interact with you for a prolonged period of time.  I know, for instance, that he has a video he would like you to view and several more pieces of art to offer for your criticism.”

      “Time for a b…bigger room.”

Time for rest.

      “I shall collect the current works into a large portfolio for your enjoyment and provide young Arthur with fresh wall space for his newest creations.”

      “And yours.”

Mycroft had hoped that Lestrade had not noticed the few of his drawings that Arthur insisted on adding to the vast gallery he had created on the walls.

      “My scribblings are meager compared to Arthur’s boundless and energetic talent.”

      “No… they’re good.  I like them.”

      “You do?”

Lestrade nodded his head and waved his fingers at the drawings, which Mycroft correctly interpreted meant ‘bring them here.’

      “Love them.  Y…your’re _very_ good.”

Mycroft watched Lestrade run his hands over the pieces of paper, each with a sketch that Mycroft had crafted while sick with both worry and guilt.  Little remembered scenes of his beloved and even his precious car, which Lestrade seemed to adore as much as did he.

      “If you like, I shall be happy to make more for you.  It is… I have not exercised this particular interest of mine in a very long time.”   

      “You should.  And I do w…want more.”

      “Then you shall have them.  That can be an enjoyable evening, yes?  A quiet night by the fire, with a book for you and my sketchpad for me…”

Such an eager smile, Mycroft thought, as he set moved the sketches to the nightstand and arranged Lestrade’s blankets and placed a kiss on his forehead.  Those would be their evenings now.  And nights watching his Gregory’s classic films, or enjoying cultural events… taking to bed early for lengthy bouts of lovemaking or… or, and, then… so many possibilities… so many opportunities that in all of his years Mycroft never believed he would ever be able to embrace.  Only one insignificant thorn to remove from his side and Mycroft’s _life_ could actually begin.

      “Rest now, Gregory and make no further attempts to remain awake.  You put me in mind of a mischievous child and I have already one of those with which to contend.”

And that grin _was_ mischievous, but also very tired and Mycroft  knew it wouldn’t be a minute before Lestrade had returned to sleep.  He was happy to be off to his mission with their conversation in his mind, but it was an unnecessary strain on Lestrade’s health and he would leave Arthur will a little note to keep a watchful eye that his Detective Inspector remained calm and peaceful while he was gone.  Likely, his anxiety would rise again upon Mycroft’s return and he was not provided with full disclosure of their activities.  Or with details that he was well aware were not entirely painting a full picture.

__________

      “No, you can’t.”

      “I assure you, Martin.  I can.”

      “Get off the flight deck.  The both of you!”

      “How cute that you believe wishing for a thing will make it come true.”

      “Mycroft… regulations state…”

      “Oh, which ones?”

Mycroft pulled out his mobile.

      “Provide me the numerical designations and I shall change them, if it settles your agitated mind.”

      “You can’t do that!”

      “I assure you that I can.  And won’t that make air travel a delight for pilots worldwide.”

      “You’re not going to win, Martin, so why are you bothering to even try?”

      “It’s in the manual!”

      “I shall have new ones printed immediately.  If you wish, I can have a new version delivered to your hands when we land in London.  Will you please, for the time being, do the job for which you were conscripted?”

      “I hate you.  You’re both… urgh, I don’t even know!”

      “Such is the way in families.  Now, may we possibly depart before they find our dessicated bones clinging to the seats?”

      “And you’ll not have changed the flight regulations, so Martin’s eternal record will be besmirched by a very large black mark.”

      “Too true.  He shall likely be demoted post-mortem.”

      “Hate.  Four letters and tons of fuck-all.”

      “Why are we still on the ground?”

      “Why are you in that uniform?”

      “We don’t have clearance from the tower and I am the CAPTAIN of this aircraft!”

      “Do not rile him, Sherlock.  He might hit you with his hat and I would fear the weight from the gold braid would do your skull little good.”

      “I miss Douglas.”

      __________

      “So I can just stay here?”

      “I cannot predict exactly when we will depart, so I need you here to prepare for departure the moment you receive my notification.”

      “Ok… we’re good for fuel, so getting back to Fitton won’t be a problem.”

      “We may be, however, requiring a detour before returning your lovely craft to her bed.”

      “Detour?”

      “On my notification, Martin.  Be ready quickly.”

__________

      “I am surprised you allowed Edgar to stay in your home unsupervised.”

      “My home is sanitized the moment I leave every day.  And any room in which I do not wish visitors to observe is very well secured.  Unless you believe he can plan the Armageddon from my kitchen, then I assure you there is no harm he can do.”

Mycroft remembered those words when he and Sherlock exited the vehicle he had obtained for their travel from and to the plane and noticed first that the handsome light fixture he had chosen to illuminate his entrance had been changed.  As well as the rug inside the door.  And where was his lovely vase?

      “Mycroft!  Darling, why didn’t you tell me you were arriving tonight?  I have nothing prepared and… oh, Sherlock.  How… good to see you.”

      “I apologize, Edgar, for the abrupt arrival, however, I did not realize that I would be returning to London until yesterday and I thought you might appreciate a surprise.”

      “I do!  They are so rare from you, you horrid thing.  And I have one for you!  Come… you must see.  You’ll be thrilled!”

Only Sherlock could have noticed the nearly-invisible flicker of disgust on his brother’s face when Edgar grabbed his hand, gave him a quick kiss, then pulled him to follow as he dashed into the sitting room.  Which had been entirely made over with modern furnishings in eye-watering colors that even Arthur would find offensive.

      “Don’t you love it!  It’s absolutely the new thing and I knew you’d want us to have the best when our friends begin to visit.  Oh and follow me…”

The kitchen was worse and Sherlock was blessedly relieved that he wasn’t required to visit the bedroom.  He was more than certain that his vomit would not even be noticed with Edgar’s taste in décor.

      “So, what do you think?”

Sherlock watched his brother school his features and it was only by the small twitch of a finger that he knew Mycroft was within a hair’s breadth of snapping Edgar’s neck.  Which would really save them quite a bit of time and fuss…

      “Quite… invigorating.”

      “Wonderful!  The colors _are_ supposed to inspire the passions.  When we entertain… oh, our parties will be the talk of London!”

      “You are using the term ‘we’ rather freely, Edgar.  And, may I ask why you have chosen to refashion _my_ home.”

That was a tone Sherlock knew well and it had _never_ meant good things for the person to whom it was directed.

      “Well, that is the other part of my surprise.  I knew you would drag the proverbial foot, so I decided to make the decision for you.  We are perfect together, Mycroft.  You’ve said so yourself.  And perhaps it is a good thing you’re here, Sherlock, because we’ll be seeing a lot of each other from now on.  Well, as often as you visit your brother, because this is _our_ home now.  Isn’t that fabulous, Mycroft?  You said you wished we could be together all of the time and now we shall.  I still have a few things to bring over, but… it’s everything we wanted!  I can’t believe we’re together again, darling.  I was devastated when I lost you the first time and now… I’ve never been happier in my life and this time it’s not going to end.  You told me you loved me, darling, and you know how very much I love you.  Now, we’ll have _our_ home and _our_ life and… _everything_ we wanted.”

Sherlock recoiled in amazement at the speed with which Mycroft wrapped his hand around Edgar’s throat.  Snakes didn’t strike with that speed.

      “Everything I have ever _wanted_ is lying in a hospital bed struggling to survive the bullets you put into his chest.”

Not all of the shock in Edgar’s eyes was because of the grip on his neck.

      “Yes, there is a little surprise for _you_ , Edgar darling.  Gregory is _alive_.  He is a thousand times the man you are and your pitiful attempt to end his life has failed miserably.  Did you think you could simply face him and emerge victorious?  You pathetic creature… thinking you could flail at a man like him and stroll away with your own life intact?  You are not fit to cast an eye in his direction, yet you have received his grace in the form of the very life you most surely deserve to lose.  I gave him my word that you would not die at my hand, however… I did not say what else my hand might do.  Or whomever might stand at the ready to perform your sacrifice.   Sherlock, if you would be so kind as to follow me…”

Mycroft tightened his grip on Edgar’s throat and pushed the man ahead of him, nodding to Sherlock to open the door to his bedroom, which was as terrifying as Sherlock had imagined, then towards the large closet, where he directed his brother to push aside the rows of suits and feel along the back wall for a shallow indentation.  When pushed, a small panel opened and Mycroft used his free hand to type in a code and have a scanner read the prints from two of his fingers before a soft click was heard that signaled the opening of the door he’d just unlocked.  A nudge of his foot and Mycroft had the door pushed open with Edgar being thrust through the opening and down a flight of steps, fighting Mycroft’s grip as best he could with his oxygen being slowly restricted.  Sherlock hoped his mouth was not gaping open at the revelation that his brother had a clichéd secret passage in his bedroom and vowed to check every inch of Mycroft’s house for whatever other secrets it might hold.

      “Few, Sherlock.   Do try and contain your transparency.  And, this is, by far, the largest.  It is also one that you will not divulge to anyone.  Not even to John.  It is the value of this room that its existence be unknown except to a very, very select few.”

Sherlock looked around at the sterile space, but as his eyes took in more detail, the purpose became quite clear.

      “I would think you would have other suitable spaces to perform _interrogations_.”

      “Many, however, that is not the primary use of this space.  It has been modified for tonight’s festivities, specifically at my request.”

Mycroft hurled Edgar away and his back hit the wall with a heavy thump.

      “If you will assist please?”

Mycroft motioned Sherlock over to take charge of the nearly-suffocated Edgar who began again to struggle in hopes of gaining some control of the situation.  Sherlock held the man’s arms tightly behind his back and watched as his brother browsed through the contents of a plain grey trunk, humming a soft and slightly springy tune as he pulled out a length of rope, standing on the room’s lone chair to run the rope one through two widely-spaced rings suspended from the ceiling.

      “Lift him up, if you will, Sherlock.”

Edgar began to fight harder, but was no match for Sherlock’s determination and wiry muscle and found himself lifted upwards so Mycroft could fasten each end of the rope tightly to his wrists.  A quick nod by Mycroft for Sherlock to let go when the ropes were tightly tied left Edgar dangling several inches above the floor.

      “There.  Now we may speak uninterrupted by any further misbehavior on your part.  And shall we facilitate access for our little conversation?  I think that would be wise… you have always valued your wardrobe and I would hate to do to your lovely outfit what I am soon to do to you.”

An ugly snake of discomfort worked its way up Sherlock’s spine hearing the light, almost teasing tone to his brother’s voice.  And there was an utter calm to his face and body that was strangely disturbing in its contentment.  He had supposed that Mycroft would simply execute the villain or perform some vulgar display of brute force, leaving Edgar battered and regretting each breath he took.  Instead, Sherlock watched Mycroft make short work of removing Edgar’s clothing, using a sharp, long-bladed knife he also retrieved from the trunk of supplies to cut through the sleeves of Edgar’s shirt so the man was completely exposed.

      “You were always so mindful of your physique, Edgar.  I do acknowledge that and the effort you have made to keep it in pristine condition.  It is a shame that those efforts are now to go to waste.”

Sherlock felt a spray of wetness hit his face as he watched his brother make a near-pirouette, slashing his blade across Edgar’s stomach leaving a run of red flowing down from the long cut, Edgar’s scream echoing loudly from the hard stone walls. Another cold tendril slid through Sherlock as he stared at Mycroft, running the knife blade between his fingers, cleaning it back to shining silver.

      “Mycroft… you have to listen to me…”

      “I most certainly do not.  In fact, I am very, very tired of listening to you and your endless prattle.  If for only that, I should have slit your throat.  But you dared to take action against my Gregory and, for that, I shall save your throat for last.”

Another lightning-quick slash and Edgar’s left thigh was opened almost to the bone and Sherlock was sure he had never heard a man scream so harshly in his life.  A third strike and the other leg was cut straight down from thigh to ankle and Sherlock rocked a bit on his heels against the screams in his ears and the blood that was splattered everywhere.  He could feel it in his hair and the smell of it was nearly smothering.

      “My…Mycroft… why?”

      “Oh dear, have I not made myself understandable.”

Mycroft slide his knife slowly up into the cut he’d made in Edgar’s abdomen, then yanked, ripping the skin as he tore the blade from Edgar’s body.  Sherlock’s mind could only think of a marionette as Edgar’s body jerked and twisted on his ropes, crying and keening from the agony.

      “You tried to hurt what was mine.  You dared to do harm to the man I love…”

      “You told me you loved _me_!”

      “And you believed me?  How foolish…”

Sherlock thought Mycroft looked like conductor, wielding his knife like a baton making a rapid series of criss-cross cuts across Edgar’s heaving chest.  And he hummed slightly when he stepped back to admire his work.  Hummed the same happy tune that more belonged in a children’s film than in this grisly scene.  Sherlock wiped his mouth and cringed as his hand came away stained red with blood that wasn’t his.

      “B…b…but… you _told_ me.  Y…you said you cared…”

Mycroft’s laugh was light, but completely without mirth.

      “For you?  You are the most worthless individual the random combination of human genes has ever produced.  You produce nothing, contribute nothing… you strive not for the betterment of yourself or others… you consume, degrade, defile… and you think I cared?”

How could Mycroft move so quickly?  Sherlock was sure he didn’t see Mycroft raise his arm and pin Edgar’s wrist to the wall with his knife before he heard the ear-splitting screams.

      “Oh dear me… that was ill-advised wasn’t it?  Nothing for it, however.  Sherlock, will you retrieve a replacement implement, please?”

It was harder to start walking that Sherlock would have expected, both from the slickness on the floor and the unwillingness of his legs to actually follow his mind’s directive.  He had done many things he was not proud of in this life, but none with as much enjoyment as his brother was displaying.  And he nearly leaped out of his skin when a bloody hand grasped his shoulder, halting him in his tracks.

      “You can leave, Sherlock.  I told you some things were not for your eyes.”

And that tone was not light or teasing.  It was thick with regret and sympathy that Sherlock wanted to rage against, but couldn’t.  It was the only thing about his brother that seemed human right now.  Instead he shook his head and retrieved a fresh, clean knife from a trunk filled with tools that meant far worse things for the man slowly bleeding to death a few steps away.

      “Ah… thank you.  Now, where was I?  Oh yes, clarifying my position on our relationship.”

This blade was shorter, but thicker and the gashes it cut across Edgar’s face welled up thickly with slow-flowing blood that dripped onto Edgar’s chest and ran rivulets into his mouth.

      “You think of yourself as a prize, Edgar.  One that I would be eager to win.  Privileged to be given. Grateful to hold.  In that, you are quite wrong.”

Edgar’s back had been left alone so far, but that ended with a shallow stab and a very slow draw of the knife tip from his shoulder down to the base of his spine.  An action he repeated thrice more, each cut deeper than the last.  The screaming had eased, much to Sherlock’s relief, but he was not at all sure the long low moan that floated out of Edgar’s lungs was any better.  And Mycroft simply stood back and tapped his blade against his thigh, appraising his subject and looking for all the world like he was contemplating the next brush stroke on a painting.

      “N…not fair.”

      “Fair?  How dare you.  Was it fair to harm a man who had done nothing to you?  To throw away the lives of random innocents to further your twisted desires?”

Each word pressed out between Mycroft’s clenched teeth and Sherlock could see the calm slipping from his brother’s mind.

      “Y… you came to m…me.  You p…pursued _me_.  You told m…me you wanted me.  Y…you wanted _us_.  You loved me.  H…he was… you s…said you w…wanted me.  He m…made that impossible.  I did it b… because  _you_ _said you w…wanted_ _me_.  And I wanted y…you.  I w…wanted…”

Mycroft’s arm whipped out again and blood sprayed from Edgar’s throat.

      “Finally, a little quiet.”

      “M…Mycroft…”

      “It is not fatal, Sherlock.  Do give me credit for knowing what I am doing.  I gave my word to Gregory that I would not end the life of this disgrace and I will not violate that for any reason.  Of course, if you would like the honor…”

      No.  No… no, I do not.”

      “Very well.  May I trouble you to retrieve my mobile from my pocket?  Excellent… if you would reach Martin for me?  I believe your hands are more tidy than mine.”

Mycroft looked as if he were wearing gloves made of a deep red silk and Sherlock swallowed as his mind processed the contradictory images of his brother’s genial smile and the blood dripping off his fingertips.  He distracted himself by placing the call to Martin and after a cocked eyebrow from Mycroft, held the phone near his brother’s mouth.

      “Mycroft, is that you?”

      “And if had not been, wouldn’t you have felt silly.”

      “Aren’t you a funny man?  Is this my notification?”

      “Indeed it is.  We shall be there shortly.  The instructions for the next section of our journey will be sent to your phone immediately.  Please make all appropriate arrangements.”

      “Next section?”

      “All appropriate arrangements, Martin.  Goodbye.”

Sherlock terminated the call and watched as his brother used Edgar’s clothing to clean some of the blood off of his hands before taking the phone himself, to provide Martin with the necessary information.

      “Where… where are we going?”

      “Hmmm… ah.  There are parties that have been made aware that Edgar has been rather a naughty boy.  He has tried to kill a Detective Inspector who was my personal mole within law enforcement, which will surely arouse a great deal of attention once the situation is made known.  Attention that will not mean good things for certain associates of Edgar and my mutual acquaintance.  And, these acquaintances may have also been made aware that Edgar has been rather free with his tongue.  Not that he knows any specifics concerning the subject of my attention, but he does know vagaries that would be of great interest if they reached certain ears both in the law enforcement and civilian communities.”

      “And you plan on delivering him to these ‘parties.’ “

      “They are quite grateful for my assistance in this matter.  No matter what is his condition when he is delivered to them.”

      “They _will_ kill him.”

      “Likely.  But I have not, and that was the extent of my promise to Gregory.  Now, if you will move the vehicle to the rear courtyard, I shall prepare our guest to be relocated.”

Mycroft watched as his brother moved quickly back up the stairs and only then let the sadness he felt reach his eyes.  His brother… so eager to appear dispassionate, emotionless, unflappable and that was so far from the truth.  But he had stood strong in support of Lestrade and that was an act for which Mycroft would forever feel deep and undying pride.  Though he had to wonder how Sherlock would view him now that he had seen… far more than he should ever have seen.

      “And you, Edgar… it is a shame that you lie in a sleep much like my dearest Gregory, because there are far more entertaining things I would wish to do to you outside of Sherlock’s sight.  However, I believe that I have given myself enough satisfaction to let the matter lie, but for one thing.”

Mycroft looked through the trunk and found the pliers for which he was looking and used them to remove one of Edgar’s perfect teeth.

      “A souvenir, if you wish.  Not for me, perhaps, but for Gregory, though he will never know of its existence.  It will be his unspoken token and my eternal reminder of what damage I have done to him.  In some ways, you were only an extension of my own cruelty and neglect and I will spend my life doing penance for the crimes I have perpetrated against him, not that he will ever ask for a single act of contrition.  He is a good man.  I am not.  It is a simple truth, but one that he chooses to ignore and I am forever grateful for it.  Now, shall we get you settled?  I have a very nice expanse of cloth that should keep you quite warm and provide a very respectable amount of compression for those pesky wounds of yours.  Come along… we must be ready when Sherlock returns for I fear he would be a bit distressed if I asked him for any further assistance.”

__________

      “Are you alright, Martin?”

That was a question Martin didn’t know how to answer, so he decided on giving Mycroft the gift of honestly.

      “I don’t know.”

He knew what was in the trunk that Sherlock and Mycroft had carried aboard.  He could hear and smell and… there was no way to miss the faint traces on both of his cousins that their quick wash and redressing had not erased.  Then, the trunk was gone.  Delivered to a waiting car at a small airfield many hundreds of miles away from London.  And it was not spoken of again.  Sherlock had looked shaken, something Martin had never before seen and hoped he would never see again.  And Mycroft… Mycroft looked as he always did.  Wearing that small, affable smile that was so utterly false most of the time, but sometimes… sometimes it betrayed his absolute satisfaction with something and good luck deciding which one it was on any given day.  But this time, Martin was fairly certain he knew…

      “The situation has been resolved, Martin.  It is ended.  You have done nothing but pilot an aircraft as you do day after day.  You have nothing on your soul to stain it.”

      “I participated in…”

      “In flying a plane.  Moving cargo from one location to another.  _Living_ cargo, if that helps salve your conscience.”

Martin cut his eyes over to Sherlock who grimly nodded in agreement.

      “So… he was just roughed up a bit?”

      “That would not be an inaccurate description.”

      “Then who was at…”

      “Questions, Martin… do you really want as much disclosure as you are seeking?  Leave your curiosity with this… Edgar has been called to pay for his sins and his sins were not only committed on our little circle.  It is the turn of others to demand their due of him.  Now, how long until we arrive in Fitton?”

      “A few hours.”

      “Good.  Very good.  Then I shall trouble you for some space in which to gain a greater measure of comfort and perhaps a brief nap.  If I am needed, please do not hesitate to disturb me.”

Sherlock and Martin watched Mycroft leave the flight deck, taking a specter of something dark and ugly along with him.

      “Sherlock…”

      “Mycroft, though it is difficult to admit, is correct.  The situation has been resolved.  There is nothing else to discuss.”

      “What will you tell John?”

      “More or less what I am telling you.  If he desires details of a more medical nature, I will comply as best as I am able.  I would advise that you share as little as possible with Arthur, however.”

      “I am sharing _nothing_ with Arthur.  He does not need to know _anything_ about _any_ of this.  I don’t like lying to him, not one bit, but in this case… it’s just for the best, isn’t it?”

      “Without doubt.”

Martin and Sherlock sat quietly for a moment before Martin asked a question that had been weighing on his mind.

      “Sherlock… will Mycroft be ok?  He’s putting up a good front, but…”

      “Mycroft will always be ‘ok,’ Martin.  It is his greatest talent.”

      “You know what I mean, you prat.”

      “Oh very well… Mycroft feels he has achieved a revenge appropriate for Lestrade’s suffering and that pleases him greatly.  However, he will continue to endure the guilt of being the distal cause of Lestrade’s suffering and that will bring him great pain, which will be slow to heal because it is extremely rare he feels anything so deeply.  He _will_ be ‘ok’ given sufficient time and the sustained confidence that his affection for Lestrade is returned in full, which I believe is actually the case.”

      “Can we do anything…”

      “He would not be comfortable with any gestures of sympathy.”

      “He would if they came from Arthur.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to cut eyes and he fixed his cousin with a hard and focused stare.

      “You would intentionally put words in Arthur’s ear to engage in actions designed to bolster Mycroft’s inner spirits?”

      “It’s what he’s best at.”

      “True, and he does gain great pleasure from his work.”

      “Oh yes… then it is agreed?”

      “I see no reason to refuse.  Between Lestrade’s awkward romantic overtures and Arthur’s enthusiastic… enthusiasm… Mycroft should find sufficient solace to promote a more rapid healing.”

      “And Arthur will drive him absolutely daffy, which will be fun to watch.”

      “That _was_ the major selling point of your plan.”


	42. Darkness Makes the Brightness Brighter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much wonderful feedback and encouragement... I greatly and sincerely appreciate it all...

Martin was surprised that Mycroft was awake when they touched down, because the one quick moment he’d run to relieve himself of cold crap coffee, his cousin appeared to be deader than… no, those clichés and mental images needed to be shelved for awhile.  But Mycroft was awake and looking impeccable when Martin finally brought GERTI to a stop and completed his post-flight routine.  Even though Sherlock hadn’t slept a wink, he’d fallen into the state of wakeful obliviousness that Martin remembered very well as signifying his entire being was dedicated to some matter of analysis and little things such as registering the world around him were supremely insignificant.  The outcome was a pleasant one, though, since it kept the flight deck quiet and left Martin alone to try and piece together his own thoughts.  Which he still hadn’t successfully done.  It was a good thing that Mycroft insisted on driving back to the hospital, since Martin suddenly felt very, very tired and very, very many other things…

It seemed that guilt was a unifying factor in their current situation, each with his own share, real or imagined, and what had sunk into Martin’s bones was the extremely real and terrible fact that he was the linchpin in all of their suffering.  His stupid and disastrous decisions had brought them all together and that led to everything thing followed.  _Everything_.  All of the distress and pain that had been endured could be traced back to one single event and one single person.  Everyone would be so much better off if he had been a more quality person… a smarter, stronger more capable person.

      “Martin?  Are you going to exit the vehicle?  We are here.”

Martin snapped out of his reverie to see the hospital looming in his field of view.

      “Yeah… sorry.”

Sherlock watched Martin step out of the car and blocked him from continuing further, looking at Mycroft who was staring at them with a cocked eyebrow.

      “We will follow momentarily.”

Mycroft took in the scene in front of him and gave his brother a small, knowing nod.

      “I will pacify your better halves.”

Sherlock watched Mycroft walk away and took in his own scene, one which both satisfied and disturbed him.  There wasn’t a hitch or perturbation to his stride or posture and Sherlock honestly had no idea if it was because Mycroft was completely at ease with their _trip_ or if he was truly that skilled at masking his emotions.  So skilled that Sherlock could not detect even a trace of regret, remorse or distress.

      “Operation Arthur?”

      “What?  Oh… I am no longer certain.”

      “You should be.  You’re wondering, aren’t you?  He looks so perfectly composed, but that’s his tell.”

Sherlock turned back towards Martin and subjected him to the most intense scrutiny.

      “What do you mean?”

      “What’s the math term?  Inversely related?  The cooler he is the more he’s shaken.  I guess it’s a good thing, considering what he does.  The only time I think I’ve seen that break involuntarily is over Greg and that’s …. it’s good to know he loves Greg so much that he couldn’t hide his feelings, even though I think he really wanted to try.  About this… trip, I don’t think he cares about the man you shoved into that trunk, but I do think he cares what it says about him as a person that he _could_ shove that man in the trunk.  And do whatever it is you two did to him before, you know… the trunk.  I think he cares about _that_ a great deal.”

      “And _you_ would know this?”

      “Better than you.  You spent all of your time ignoring him.  I didn’t.”

Sherlock snorted mightily, but Martin noticed he didn’t actually object.

      “And he really loves Greg, which I still can’t really process very well… I mean, it’s Mycroft and the world ‘love’ just doesn’t pop to mind when you think about him… but he does.  That much is obvious and Greg’s a decent chap.  Solid, good-hearted, easy-going… Mycroft’s going to wrestle with whether he deserves someone like Greg.  Whether he’ll wind up rubbing off on him and changing what he loves so much.  Whether he’ll wind up ruining a good person and their life for his own selfish chance at happiness.”

      “You speak as if you are familiar with the situation.”

      “You are, too, so don’t try and act superior.  It’s going to be rougher for Mycroft because… because I think he could be a more terrible person than either of us combined if he wanted to.  And he’s very well aware of it.”

Martin wasn’t a Holmes of the caliber Sherlock was, but not even he could miss the slight flinch Sherlock gave because of his words.  Not for the last time, Martin was very glad he had been left to stay on GERTI.

      “So, can we go and…”

      “It is not your fault, Martin.  That… that is what I wanted to tell you.”

      “Sherlock, what are you…”

      “Do not make this harder for me than it already is.  In the car… if you believe yourself to be as composed as my brother, you are sadly mistaken.  You project your thoughts and emotions as a lighthouse does its beam.  It is not due to your stupidity that this situation has arisen.  True, if you had not succumbed to your idiocy, there would not have been a uniting of the relevant players in this game, but you cannot claim responsibility for any pain or suffering that has subsequently ensued.   Nor for any of the more fortuitous events that have occurred.  Though there may be some statistical validity to the so-called ‘butterfly effect,’ I can assure you that you are not sufficiently significant in any form to warrant either the credit or the blame for the current scenario.”

Strangely, Martin thought that was the nicest thing Sherlock had ever said to him.

      “I’m not sure I’ve ever been so pleasantly insulted.”

      “Then do remember this occasion, for I can assure you it will not arise again.  Now, I am certain we are anticipated and John will make his disapproval known if I do not present myself forthwith for inspection.”

      “Same for Arthur. Good talk, then.”

      “Yes, it rather was.”

      “So… do we engage?”

      “Operation Arthur?  I believe you have convinced me that such an action would not be remiss.”

      “Ok, I’ll talk to him.  I don’t think it will take much prodding to get him into action.  He thinks Mycroft walks on water.”

      “Their affinity is puzzling.  I cannot see a reason why either of them could find common ground, let alone build a relationship that both seem to greatly covet.  Whether it is ultimately for good or ill, you can, at minimum, rest assured that Arthur is cared for and protected to an extent few others in the world can claim.”

      “That didn’t stop Edgar getting to him and Greg.”

      “No… and that is why you can breathe easier.  Mycroft never makes the same mistake twice.  Never.  And his retribution for any who would try to…”

Again, Martin felt something very uncomfortable cross Sherlock’s features and he felt, for the first time in years, a true pang of concern for his cousin.

      “Sherlock… if you want to talk about it…”

      “No.  Thank you, but… no.  Not at this time.”

A troubled confusion sparked in Sherlock’s eyes, which was quickly hidden away, but it was enough for Martin resolve to include Sherlock in the little talk he would have later with Arthur.  And maybe, also one he would have with John.

      “Then let’s go, before Arthur and John come looking for us.  I, for one, and not in the mood for Arthur wagging his finger at me and offering me pie.  No, that’s a lie.  I could murder a pie right now.”

Sherlock took the out he’d been offered and nodded in agreement.

      “I have no doubt that if you desire food, it will be provided in abundance.  Perhaps you might convince your fiancé to return home and prepare you something appropriate.”

      “One, he’s not my fiancé.  Two, Arthur’s had a long day himself, I would wager, and I’m not going to add to his burden by asking him to make a pie.”

      “I could assume that your concern was that of the loving husband, however, I am fully aware your worry lies in what you might find under the crust.”

      “I refuse to dignify that with a response.”

      “It would be scientifically interesting to observe what he would craft, however.”

      “Arthur’s not an experiment, Sherlock.”

      “No, he is an _experimentalist_.  And his methods intrigue me.”

      “This is all I need.  You and Arthur locked away in some mad-scientist-film laboratory, with an oven, and not come out for days.”

      “Hmmm… it would be a stimulating experience.  I shall consider that for our next visit.”

      “Let’s hope that one goes more smoothly than this one.”

      “It would be difficult for it to be otherwise.”

__________

      “Skip!  Hurray!  You’re back!  And Mr. Sherlock!  I knew Mycroft was being silly when he said you parachuted out and were going to walk back.  You wouldn’t want to walk that long a distance in your posh shoes.  You’d get blisters.  And need new shoes.  But, I guess you would have ended up at a hospital and they could have helped you with your blisters, but not really with your shoes, even though they probably have shoes here for people who lose their shoes in an accident, but I wouldn’t think they’d have posh shoes like yours so you’d have to wear plain shoes and I can’t really picture you in plain shoes.  It’s posh shoes or feet and there’s just no in-between.”

Sherlock absorbed Arthur’s joy like an elixir as he tried to make the things he’d experienced with his brother mesh with the small, tender smile Mycroft now was giving to Arthur and the man sleeping peacefully in the hospital bed.

      “Yes, Mycroft is quite famous for being silly.”

      “BRILLIANT!  And that doesn’t surprise me at all since he can give me a giggle without hardly trying.  He’s just one of those people who is naturally funny and that’s not something you find all the time.  He should have his own program on the telly so he could make lots of people laugh and since Mycroft is in charge of everything, I bet he could get his own show without any problem at all!  And Greg could be on it, too!  When he wasn’t catching criminals, that is.  I just hope it won’t be on so late that I can’t see it because Mum gets mad if I watch telly late at night and then ‘shamble around like a bloody zombie’ the next day.”

      “There you go, Mycroft… time to get in front of the camera and entertain your subjects.”

      “I am sorry, John, but I must decline.  The requisite makeup would undoubtedly irritate my very sensitive skin and, further, if Gregory was exposed to the entertainment industry, they would likely whisk him off to a modeling career and London’s streets would plunge into chaos, being loosed from his vigilant protection.”

Arthur giggled and pointed at Mycroft with a ‘see, I told you so’ finger waggle, John and Martin rolled their eyes and Sherlock… still wallowed in a deep and dirty sty of confusion and frustration.  To Mycroft, Sherlock’s demeanor screamed his mental state and he knew the only thing he could offer was a slight nod when his brother turned his in his direction.  Fortunately, John could offer more and he also had a warning bell sounding in his mind that decided him to take the detective back to their temporary home and let him rest, talk, brood or whatever else it would take to drag that troubled look off of his face.

      “Well, it’s our loss.  Sherlock, how about we go and get you squared away.  It looks like you could use a good bath and…”

John hoped he hid the shock of seeing Sherlock startle at his words by rising quickly and starting to gather up his jacket and the files he wanted to bring home to look over.

      “…and a good night’s rest.  Mycroft, you’ll give me a call if anything happens, right?”

      “As always, John.”

It was a silent conversation between Mycroft and John as they held each other’s gaze an extra moment, but John understood every word.  _Take care of my brother_.

      “Come on, Sherlock, let’s go.  Martin?  Arthur?  You two coming with us?”

      “Oh, I don’t know.  Greg’s been sleeping most of today and Mycroft has to be so tired from your trip and he should get a little nap, so maybe I should stay and keep watch over Greg in case he wakes up and needs something or wants to play cards, even though I’ll have to hold both hands and see all the cards, but I won’t cheat or anything and…”

      “Arthur, my boy, it is quite alright.  I am most invigorated after a very enjoyable nap on your lovely aircraft.  You must go to extra trouble to plump the cushions because I was exceedingly comfortable and securing a restorative rest was of little difficulty.”

      “Brilliant!  No one’s ever noticed that I did that before!”

Mycroft’s smile held firm despite the very perplexed, yet resigned look on Martin’s face.

      “Well, love, if anyone would notice you gave GERTI’s seats a punch-up it _would_ be Mycroft.  And I think you could use a bit of a rest as much as I could.  You can come back soon and give Mycroft a break, but I’d like nothing more than a decent meal and a few hours of sleep and I know that you’re the best person in the world to help me with both of those.”

Arthur glowed from the praise and Mycroft chuckled softly and how handily his cousin had turned Arthur’s mind away from remaining in the hospital room.  Martin was not the most manipulative of men, but he did seem to have a natural talent for directing Arthur’s boundless energy and enormous heart.

      “Of course I’ll help!  I can cook something nice and then we can cuddle and sleep like spoons.  And Doctor Watson and Mr. Sherlock can join us.  Well, for the dinner part.  No, actually for all the parts because I have a BIG bed and we could all cuddle up like a pile of puppies and I bet that would be the warmest and most comfortable sleep ever!  Brilliant!  What a completely brilliant idea!  And next time we have a puppy nap, Mycroft can do it too, and then Greg when he gets well, and we’ll be a huge pack of puppies and what could be better than that?  Nothing!  Nothing could be better than a puppy nap with all of you.  And maybe even Mum and Douglas and Herc would want to be in our pile and… oh, I’m going to need a larger bed.  Unless I put a lot of those air beds and put them on the floor…”

      “AND that’s our cue to leave.  Mycroft, you need anything before we go?”

      “Thank you, Martin, but I shall be fine.  Arthur, I look forward to seeing you later, please enjoy your time away.”

      “Thanks, Mycroft!  Tell Greg I said hello if he wakes up.  Ok, Skip, I’m ready.  And I do believe we still have plenty of pasta and chicken and vegetables, so I can make a tasty dinner for you while you shower.”

      “Wow… that sounds… _good_.”

      “Oh, it will be.  With enough mustard and sauerkraut, you’ll want second and third helpings!”

Martin hoped he didn’t pale as badly as John and seethed that Sherlock actually seemed interested.  Stupid little science club they had going on…

      “Can’t wait.  Mycroft, see you later.  Let’s go, chaps.  We’ve got a feast to wrestle.”

Mycroft watched as Arthur did a little eager jig and snatched Martin and Sherlock’s hands to pull them out, Sherlock’s hand already joined with John’s, so it was a train of people who exited and left Mycroft and Lestrade alone.  Mycroft looked around the room and took in all of the bright pictures and decorations and was extremely glad that his Gregory was surrounded by such color and brightness.  It was times like these that he felt blessed to have young Arthur in their lives because he was not sure this was something he could be counted on to provide to the man he loved so much, but felt so inadequate to make happy.  Gregory was a star in the sky and he was only the darkness that hid behind the light.  Would the fact that he cared be enough?  He could provide materially for any of his man’s needs, but could he bring the joy and pleasure of life that the Detective Inspector required.  It was not really his strength.  He could play the role well, he had surely convinced Edgar Peterson of his joie de vivre, but Gregory needed more.  He needed a true _companion_ , one who would share his joys fully and fill his days with laughter and entertainment and contentment…

But he _had_ done it.  He had spent honest time with his Gregory and the man had been happy, obviously and unabashedly happy.  Even when he was not expecting to be happy, such as on their little photographic excursion, Lestrade had greatly enjoyed himself, and so had he.  There was no performance that day, no carefully chosen and scripted words.  He had made Gregory happy that day and many other days of their association.  And he was not at all posturing with young Arthur… everything he did or said was heartfelt, even though it could be argued that his heart was far too small to be of use to anything but a shrew.  And Martin and John… Sherlock, as always… perhaps there was a chance that he could offer more than a cold and sterile love to his Gregory.  Perhaps…

      “I smell smoke.”

Mycroft shot towards Lestrade’s bed, eyes wide and hands feeling for any instance of flame or heat.

      “You’re thinking too hard.”

Fortunately, Lestrade’s legs were not injured and Mycroft felt no compunction against giving them a gentle, chastising slap.

      “You do seem to find the most opportune moments to wake, my dear.  Arthur says you rested most of the day.”

      “I think it’s you.  _Someone’s_ gotta keep an eye on you.”

Mycroft had no idea why that thought made his chest clench, but he wasn’t going to waste time worrying about silly things like emotion when he could talk to Lestrade and reassure himself that the world was again alright.

      “Yes, they do.  And I cannot think of a more qualified individual to take up the job.”

      “And you can repay me by getting me something to eat.  And maybe a coffee.  I’d like to be awake for more than the time it takes to say hello.”

Just a bit of slurring to the words and there was definitely more focus to the eyes.  Mycroft was very pleased with Lestrade’s progress and he would have to discuss with John the details of how far the Detective Inspector had come and how much longer it would be before he could be moved back to London.

      “I think the response to those requests would be ‘no’ and ‘no.’  How delightfully simple.”

      “Oh come on… get yourself something and give me a little nibble.  And a big swallow.  I’ll even be a good boy and not make that last bit into a filthy innuendo.”

      “Alas, what a shame.  That rather ruins the fun, doesn’t it?  Firstly, I do not have permission from John to provide you with solid food and I refuse to have that frightening liquid this institution calls ‘coffee’ anywhere in my vicinity.  Therefore, you shall go unfulfilled, but I do promise that as soon as I am able, I _will_ fulfill you to the best of my ability.”

Maybe it was Lestrade’s smile that Mycroft had been waiting on to find light in his own life.  How quickly the clouds lifted every time he was graced with Gregory’s grin.

      “Nasty man… but it’s a good nasty, so life’s looking up.”

      “I shall do my best, however, to entertain you in your wakeful state.”

      “It’s a deal.  You can start with telling me about your ‘business’ in London.”

No, that would not do.

      “Tedious and tiresome.  We shall speak of more enjoyable things.”

      “On a scale from one to ten, just how dead is he?”

Time should never stop, yet Mycroft was beginning to believe that Lestrade had the supernatural power to do so.

      “Gregory…”

      “I’m not a fool, Mycroft.  Answer me.”

A lie would be such a simple thing.  A gentle and caring thing.  But it would still be a lie and Gregory did not deserve his lies.

      “I cannot speak for the present, but when he departed my presence he was breathing and communicative.”

Moaning was a form of communication and a quite informative one at that, therefore… not a lie.

      “That bad.  Well.   Well, well, well…”

      “My dear, I…”

      “No… it’s ok.  Like I said, I’m not a fool.  And, if you thought I didn’t know what you’d do, I feel insulted.  I _know_ what you can do, Mycroft.  I’ve known for a long time and… I just know, is all.”

Of course he did.  Of course he _would_.  Mycroft suddenly felt himself the fool believing that his Gregory would underestimate the havoc he could wreak on another individual if sufficiently motivated to do so.  He had _seen_ the aftermath… and suffered it himself.  The Detective Inspector would be fully aware of what was on the horizon… and did not turn away from him.

      “You are not a fool, Gregory… it is simply not something with which I wish to burden you with at this time.  You have enough to bear without dwelling on things that are not pleasant and helpful to your healing.”

      “I lie here, sometimes, with my eyes closed and listen to you all talking and laughing and want to break down and weep because I almost lost it all.  I came as close as a person could come to never hearing any of your voices again.  I was shot, Mycroft.  I _died_.  Don’t think I’m not constantly dwelling on things that aren’t pleasant.”

Mycroft ran his fingers through the limp strands of hair on his beloved’s head and released a very large sigh.

      “I am learning that you are not entirely unskilled in cloaking your feelings, however, I would hope that you would not deem it necessary when it is simply the two of us to experience them.  You should share these things with me, my dear.”

      “I’ll share if you do, too.”

A _very_ worthy adversary.

      “I believe we can reach an accord.  But, may we postpone the more difficult discussion, on my part, until a later time?  I shall not forget, but I would prefer to focus on _you_ for the present.  It would ease my own troubles knowing your attentions were directed wholly on your recovery.  Once you are stronger, we may engage in other conversations that pertain to me, but in the meantime, I want you to divulge your thoughts whenever you feel them too heavy to carry alone.  I am here for you, my dear.  And I will set aside whatever time you require of me, even if it is only have me sit and listen.”

      “I guess I can agree to that.  But… not right now, ok?  Give me some time to pull my own head together a little better.”

      “Of course.  Nothing that is not on your own schedule.  Now, shall we speak of happier things?  Arthur is planning a lovely meal tonight, that I shall be happy to describe.  It is one I think would tantalize you greatly.”

      “Oh… I’ve gotta hear this.  And do I have any new pictures to look at?”

      “I am actually unaware if he made you something new to enjoy, however… if you wish, I shall sketch for you while we converse.  Any subject you would appreciate.”

      “A dragon.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “I want a dragon.  A big dragon with wings and fire and everything.”

      “You are making a jest.”

      “What’s wrong?  Can’t draw a dragon?”

      “I most certainly _can_ draw a dragon, I am simply not comprehending the reason why you would request a mythical creature for your commission.”

      “They’re big and colorful and have massive claws and teeth.  They breathe fire, for christ’s sake!  What’s not to like about a dragon?  And no… I’m not turning into Arthur.  I just like dragons.”

Well, when put that way… Mycroft chuckled and began collecting an assortment of pencils, retrieved his sketchpad and took a seat next to Lestrade’s bed, angling the chair so that Lestrade could watch him work only by turning his head.

      “One majestic dragon for your pleasure.”

      “Green?”

      “Very.  I would not deviate from the classics…”

__________

Sherlock was immensely interested in everything Arthur did in the kitchen, as his methods were so uniquely logical and he was entirely unafraid to take risks to achieve his objectives.  A joint experimental venture _could_ be a highly illuminating experience.

      “You done with that, Sherlock?  I think you actually put four bites down your throat, too.  I really need to congratulate Arthur on getting you to actually eat something.  If you start to get feeble and brittle, I’m hiring him to come and be our cook.  That’ll leave me and Martin free for telly and pints with Greg.  All-around a good situation.”

John whisked away Sherlock’s plate and the detective watched him stride across the kitchen with that particular gait that was so recognizably _John_.  Composed, confident, yet completely lacking in arrogance or pretense.  John walked like a man who knew who he was and was unashamed about any of it.

      “John, it is time to retire.  Come along.”

Sherlock chose to ignore Martin’s snigger at John’s look of annoyance and focused only on his partner, with whom he suddenly very much needed to be alone.

      “Ok, sure… just let me help Arthur clean up…”

      “Martin can do that.  It is imperative that we retire now.”

John opened his mouth to outline his opinion on Sherlock’s use of the word ‘imperative’ but remembered quickly the detective’s behavior at the hospital and Mycroft’s very visible, yet silent plea.

      “Fine.  Martin, I’ll owe you one?”

Actually, dragging Sherlock away so he could have time alone with Arthur was not something Martin was going to object to.

      “Sounds good.  Always nice to be owed a favor.  Well, you heard them, Arthur… let’s get to work.  Sooner we get this all straightened out, the sooner we can get you some rest, too.”

Before Arthur could say anything, Martin swooped him into a quick twirl around the kitchen, so John and Sherlock could make a clean get-away.  In the blink of an eye Sherlock had John nearly to the top of the stairs and another moment found them behind the closed door of their temporary room, with Sherlock quickly starting to remove John’s clothes, both to John’s amusement and concern.

      “Guess you had a busy day.  Care to share?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, but continued to strip John naked, then remove his own clothing even faster.  John turned to move towards the bed, but stopped when two large hands grabbed his shoulders and held him firmly.  Sherlock leaned close and stared deeply into John’s eyes, so intensely that any arousal John was feeling rapidly declined as he recognized the stare.  Standing quietly, he patiently let Sherlock’s eyes roam over every inch of his face, then his body, the detective’s hands following behind his gaze as if committing every inch of John to both his mind and his body’s memory.  It was an eternity that he stood there and when Sherlock finally spoke it was like a thunderclap on still night.

      “Is there any part of you I don’t know, John?”

How to answer that question?  What did it even mean?

      “You’ve seen every bit of me, even bits that aren’t necessarily out on display.  I don’t know how to answer you.”

      “ _Any_ part, John.  Anything about you.  Have I seen everything?  Observed everything?  _Known_ everything?”

There was a desperation in Sherlock’s eyes that John never seen and his concern ratcheted upwards, along with his worry about just what had occurred in London.  He gently removed Sherlock’s hands from his skin and guided the detective to the bed where Sherlock shocked him greatly by curling against him like a large cat and burying his face in John’s chest.

      “Sherlock?”

      “Are you who I think you are, John?”

      “Why don’t you tell me what happened in London…”

Sherlock shook his head against John’s body, very much like a small child who didn’t want to talk to his parents.

      “Sherlock…”

      “Just answer my question.”

John took a deep breath and laid there thinking about what Sherlock had asked him.  Was he who Sherlock thought he was?  There wasn’t really a way to answer that since he had no idea how Sherlock perceived him.  Not fully, at least.  He thought he knew, but with Sherlock’s skills, there was no predicting what else he had dragged out of his soul or his past and laid onto what John consciously tried to portray.  But maybe that was what he had to look at… all the secret sins he held deep down inside.  Not that there were many; it had always been a point of pride that he carried few secrets, few shames that he consciously hid.  And he couldn’t think of anything that he kept to himself that Sherlock hadn’t or couldn’t see.  The one item he had partly hidden, his feelings for the Prince of Coats, only stayed hidden because, he believed, Sherlock had purposefully blinded himself to it, in an attempt to ignore his own feelings in return.  If there was one thing John had always thought true, it was that the person he presented to the world was the man he was inside and maybe that was all Sherlock wanted to know.

      “I would say I am.  If you’re looking for some dark side, some secret or perversion… I can’t think of any.  Do you think I’m hiding something from you?  Really, Sherlock, I’m just common old John Watson… whatever quirks or sides I have that other people might not have seen, you’ve gotten faces full of since we’ve been together.”

      “There is nothing else?”

      “Does that disappoint you?”

Sherlock wrapped his arm tightly around John’s waist and allowed himself to let out the choked breath of what sounded very much like relief.

      “No… quite the opposite.”

      “I really think we need to talk about…”

      “Not tonight, John.  Perhaps… perhaps not ever.”

      “That’s not…”

      “Not _tonight_ , John.  Truthfully, nothing is wrong.  I cannot say with honesty that there is anything _wrong_.  It is simply… paradigms shift and the transition is not always a smooth one.”

John wanted nothing more than to push and pry and yank more out his partner, but nothing good would come of it.  When Sherlock was ready, he would let him know.  Probably at the worst possible time and in the worst possible way, but he _would_ and John would have to be content with that.

      “Ok… is there anything at all you want to tell me?”

John felt Sherlock’s breath against his skin and many breaths passed before he finally got an answer.

      “There is no longer any threat to Lestrade or Arthur.  Justice, in its own way, has been served.  Martin, despite appearances, is a competent pilot.  Mycroft... is inconsequential, as always.  I love you.  Will that be sufficient?”

      “Is it sufficient for you?”

      “More than.”

      “Then it’s sufficient for me.  Though I could do with hearing that last part again.”

      “Sentiment on top of sauerkraut, I am not certain my stomach can endure the two-front assault.”

      “Give it a go.  We only grow through challenge.”

      “Philosophical… but, I have learned to expect that from you on occasion.  And… very apt in this instance.  I do love you, John.  I do not voice it as often as you deserve, but do not ever think that my feelings have tarnished or diminished for my lack of a demonstrative nature.  I do not think they can, actually, any more than my observational capabilities.  It is as much a part of me now as my own muscle or bone.  A point of constancy in a world where other things… change.”

For his part, John was always a little nervous when _Sherlock’s_ thoughts took a philosophical bent, but now was not going to be the time to press.  Instead, he lifted a hand and began to stroke his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, which, as expected, started to turn the detective’s muscles as limp as the pasta for their dinner.

      “Well, that’s good to hear.  And you know it’s the same for me.  So, do you think you can get a bit of a nap?  Days and nights have been getting fairly topsy-turvy lately and even you have to be feeling it a little.”

      “I believe a small amount of rest is in order.  I find myself quite fatigued.  You may stop talking now.”

John felt Sherlock’s chuckle against his body and had to laugh along with it.  His detective was troubled, but… it would be alright.  No matter what it took, John would make sure of it.

__________

      “Wash, wash, wash, wash…”

Arthur could make anything an enjoyable time.  Singing while doing dishes was a minor example.  He was… so unlike anyone else in the world.  So very unlike Martin’s family… _any_ part of it.  His close family was… urgh.  His distant family was… argh.  And there was Arthur, the shining jewel amongst the stones.  How could he ever even think about pulling someone so full of life and luster into the quagmire that was his family?  John and Greg… they could handle the rough… and sharp… edges, but Arthur… what would happen to him over time?  Mycroft was enamored of him, but what if he was drawn into some other terrifying situation simply because he now moved in Mycroft’s personal circle?  True, nothing had ever happened to _him_ , but he had also never been adopted by his cousin and doted upon like a much-treasured baby brother.  Martin had seen enough films, mostly with Arthur, to know that any weakness for a powerful man could and would be exploited for nasty purposes.  How could he ever think of pushing Arthur further up the target list for Mycroft’s enemies?  Maybe… idiot Sherlock and his attempts at being nice, they’d fuddled his brain in the wrong sort of way and…

      “Skip, you aren’t singing the washing song?  You know that if you don’t you have to wash the dishes twice because you don’t wash as long the first time when you don’t sing as when you do.  It’s like brushing teeth, you have to sing the song or it just doesn’t work properly.”

      “I’m singing it in my head, Arthur.”

      “Sorry, but that’s just not good enough, because we have to make doubly sure the dishes are clean and fresh since we have guests. Besides, we sound so nice together when we sing.  It’s like we have our own little group and I was actually thinking about getting one of those machines they have at some of the pubs where we can sing to one of my songs and with a microphone, too!  I have to ask Mycroft if regular people can buy them and then we could actually have music with our songs and dance around with our microphones just like they do on the telly and… I’m quite sure that would be an amazing amount of fun.  I wouldn’t be surprised if we could even put the Wash Wash! song on it and get to sing it even if we aren’t in the kitchen.  With music!”

In no form or fashion was Mycroft going to buy Arthur a karaoke machine because Martin knew with crystal clarity that he would wind up in an insane asylum.  And Mycroft would happily do it, too.  He’d get anything for Arthur.  _Do_ anything for him.  And… so would Sherlock.  In no way could Martin ever have predicted that a meeting between his cousin Sherlock and Arthur Shappey would ever have produced anything but Arthur’s complete and total emotional destruction, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth.  Sherlock, in his way, absolutely adored Arthur.  And, more than that, he acknowledged him.  Respected him, even.  He’d been good for Arthur and to this day still answered every one of Arthur’s texts or calls, sent pictures… and there was John, who patiently talked with Arthur on the phone about whatever topic Arthur fancied.  And the two exchanged so many funny internet videos it was like they were in some form of contest.  And Greg… he hadn’t known the man long, but he could already picture him out with Arthur playing football, ruffling Arthur’s hair every time he scored a goal and laughing along with Arthur’s antics.  Mycroft was probably the most dangerous man in England, Sherlock was a nightmare, recovering or not, John was a former soldier and Greg was a policeman.  All tuned to violence and harsh reality and all would do anything to make Arthur’s life a happy one…

      “Arthur… what do you think about my family?  Do you ever feel… I don’t know… nervous or worried around them or…”

Arthur set down his sponge and gave Martin a very confused look.

      “Skip!  Are you alright?  You must not be feeling well if you’d ask me that.  I LOVE your family.  Actually, they’re sort of my family, too, since Mycroft made me an honorary Holmes, so I can pretend that we’re a big happy family and… no, I don’t really have to pretend because we are.  We are one big happy family and Doctor Watson and Greg, too.  Meeting them... it’s been brilliant because I never had big family like this before.  I mean there’s Mum, but she’s the only one I really ever see of my _family_ family, and there’s Douglas... then you came along and then… whoof!  All of a sudden my family explodes!  And they’re all so brilliant!  And nice and funny and interesting and double all of that and it’s still not enough!  How could I be nervous or worried when I’m with them?  They’re… BRILLIANT!  And they’ve never been anything but wonderful to me and you know… not everyone is like that.  But from the very first, they’ve been my most brilliant friends and family and I love them all so much.  And as soon as Greg gets well, I’m going to have another party and it’ll be a real family party and we’ll play games and, oh! I’ll make sure it’s warm and I can cook outside and we’ll have Mum and Douglas there and I can hardly wait!  I need to start making a list…”

And on he went… so happy and completely at ease.  Maybe one day being so close to his family would bring Arthur more pain, but pain, as Martin well knew, wasn’t something you could escape in life.  And Arthur had already experienced a massively traumatic event, which he was managing better than Martin thought _he_ would if it had been him in the car.  Maybe there would be pain and maybe there would be disappointment or disillusionment… and maybe Arthur would come to his senses one day and realize he could do far better than a pathetic excuse for a partner like him, but… those were all maybes.  Maybe there would be more good than bad… maybe Arthur would hold onto his vision of Marin as a man worthy of loving… maybe it was time to time to actually do something right for a change…

      “Arthur?  Will you marry me?”

Arthur’s ramble screamed to a halt and he stared open-mouthed at Martin for so long that Martin worried that he’d actually broken the man.

      “Arthur?  I…”

      “ …s.’ “

      “What?”

      “..es’ “

      “Come again?”

      “.yes.  Yes.  Yes!  YES!  BRILLIANT!  SKIP BRILLIANT! YES! YES!YES!YES!YES!YES!YES!”

Martin assumed he was now officially engaged.

      “Oh, Skip… I hoped, but I didn’t know… at least not soon… and I thought that it would have to be me to ask… but… oh, Skip…”

      “Arthur, are you crying?”

Arthur nodded then hurled himself into Martin’s arms and held him so tightly Martin wondered if it was possible to actually fuse two people into one body.

      “I love you, Arthur and I can’t see spending a moment of my life without you.  You make me happier than anyone else in the world and I want to at least try and do that for you.  I want to be your husband and do everything I can to give you a good life, give you a little of the joy you give to me each and every day.  Maybe I should have said all of this first, before I asked you but… I guess it didn’t make much difference, did it?  Are you sure you really want to say yes, though?  I mean…”

Arthur didn’t answer, but took Martin up in the fiercest kiss of his lifetime and Martin decided that he just might be over second-guessing the situation, at least for today.  After the longest time, Arthur pulled back and Martin could barely see his beautiful eyes for all of the water welling up in front of them.

      “Then I guess it’s official.  You’re my fiancé, Arthur Shappey.”

Martin watched as Arthur went into a frenzied round of crying and dancing and he couldn’t help but laugh.  Laugh as freely and joyfully as he possibly could.  This was his life now.  His wonderful, amazing, completely brilliant life…

__________

      “Sherlock?  What in the world is going on downstairs?”

      “Expect a happy announcement, John.  And it _will_ be rail passes for their gift.  Cookware… how utterly boring.”


	43. Starting to Spread the Good News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks for all of the wonderful support and delightful comments!

      “We’re really going to get married?  With a ceremony and a party and rings and hats and everything?”

      “We’re really going to get married with whatever you want to make the day as happy as it can be.”

      “And… we can get our little house with a garden and…oh, we’ll get to come home together every night and wake up together and have our own parties and… we’ll get to be old gents together and…”

      “We’ll do everything you’re supposed to do as husbands, Arthur, and anything else you can think of, so long as it makes you happy.  We’ll have to figure things out about living arrangements until we get our house, though.  I mean, it’ll take a long time for me to get _any_ money together and I don’t even think I _have_ a credit history for a bank to look at to decide on for a loan.”

      “Well, it’s not like we’re getting married soon, so you should have lots of time.  And me too, because we have to do things halfsies now, since we’ll be husbands and that’s what husbands do.”

      “What do you mean?  Yes, it will take a little while for us to get everything planned, and well, I may have to ask Mycroft for a small loan to cover the costs, but that will be alright this one time…”

      “Skip, we can’t get married right away!  We can’t do it until Greg is well.”

      “I know, Arthur.  It’s ok, I know.  I absolutely want to wait until he can be there and I’m sure in a very short while he’ll be fit to pour into a wheelchair and we’ll stick him right in the front row.”

      “No!  He has to be _completely_ well.  And a policeman again.  And with Mycroft as forever boyfriends.”

      “It’ll happen, Arthur.  It’ll all happen, but it could be a very long time before Greg’s back on his feet enough to go back to work.  But he’ll be well enough to come to the wedding before very long, I’m sure.  It could be a couple of months until we’ve got everything arranged and I can get money together anyway, so…”

      “Until _we_ can get money together.”

      “Until _we_ can get money together.  So, it’s going to be fine.  In a month or so, Greg will be at Mycroft’s and I’ll bet he’ll even be walking around and…”

      “Not good enough.  He has to be completely well.  I can’t… Skip, I want to marry you so badly it’s like we’re already married.  Like it happened the moment you asked and a big magical spell got woven and you’re part of me now, a real part, like my brain or a toe.  But… it’s still like a spell that if we get married for real and Greg’s not 100% well, then something will go wrong.  With him or us or something.  Greg and I are in this together.  All the way.  And until he gets completely better…”

      “Arthur, Greg would _not_ want you to postpone your happiness on his account.  Especially when he seems to already have turned the corner…”

      “I know!  I know that but you don’t understand, Skip.  You really don’t.  This is the way it has to be.  But that doesn’t mean we can’t plan!  And I can start making all the decorations and oh!  Mum is going to be… well, I don’t really know how Mum is going to be when she hears the news, but it’ll be loud at least!  Mycroft and Greg won’t be loud, Mycroft because he’s so posh and Greg because he’s so sick, but they’ll be thrilled!  And Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Watson!  Oh, but they may have already heard a little of the good news so it won’t be as much of a surprise, but they’ll be all smiles, too!  And Douglas, well it’s hard to know what Douglas will say, but I’m sure I won’t understand much of it, sort of like with Mycroft and Mr. Sherlock, but I’m getting better with them or they’re getting better with me, I’m not sure which and Dad…”

The sound of a car crashing into a wall at high speeds was never a pleasant thing.

      “Don’t worry about Gordon, Arthur.  You don’t even have to tell him if you don’t want to.”

      “But I have to!  It has to be a law or something that you let your Dad know that you’re getting married!  I’ll ask Greg.  Or Mycroft.  But he has to know even though… well, I don’t if he’ll be very happy.  Or care.  But I have to, Skip.  Is that ok with you?”

      “You can tell, or not tell, anyone you want to, love.  And… we can be engaged for as long as you want until you decide you’re ready to set a date.  Really, Arthur, as long as I have you, I don’t really care when we put on the rings.”

But it would be something he mentioned to Mycroft to see if he could straighten out Arthur’s reasoning.  Not that Martin was in any rush to the altar, but this talisman-like restriction seemed like something that maybe Arthur should talk about with someone.  And Mycroft seemed to be as good a someone as any.  Especially since it would put him and Arthur together for a chat that might also be to Mycroft’s benefit.  And on that line…

      “And while we’re waiting, that’ll give you time to work some of your personal magic.”

      “Magic?  What sort of magic?  My dance magic?  My drawings magic?  My kitchen magic.  My, I do have a lot of magic, don’t I?  I need to sit Mr. Sherlock down for a talk about wizards again and introduce this new information.”

      “I was thinking about your chatting magic.  I think Mycroft could use a good chat right about now, what with all that’s been going on and… going off to London for business.  Having to leave Greg behind and all that.  Sherlock could also do with a nice talking to, so maybe when you have your wizard talk, you can check him out.  See how he’s doing.  He’s been looking a little off lately and I’m sure he’d appreciate a dose of your good cheer.”

      “Mr. Sherlock _has_ been looking off, but I think that’s because he loves Greg so much.  It’s obvious, so don’t make that face, Skip!  He does love Greg.  Not like he loves Doctor Watson, but he does.  And Mycroft… pfft.  Of course he’s out of sorts.  But you’re right, I haven’t had a real chance to talk about how he’s feeling the past day or so.  I mean… well, I’m not going to give you details but, well, unless you ask which I hope you don’t because I don’t think Mycroft will be happy if I said anything, anyway, I know just how badly he’s out of sorts because of Greg.  He nearly lost Greg and it would have… Skip, I’m honestly not sure Mycroft would have stayed alive himself if Greg had died.  He wouldn’t have had a heart anymore and you can’t live without a heart.  Or if it doesn’t work, like Greg’s didn’t.”

      “So you’ll check up on him for me?  See if he’s feeling any better?”

      “Sure!  I can do that!  Though I think when he hears our good news he’ll feel… brilliant!  And Greg, too!”

Martin was both sure and not sure about that.  Mycroft would be ecstatic to hear about their engagement, but… Martin had to wonder if it would throw his relationship with Greg into an uncertain light.  Would Mycroft ever actually… marry anyone?  It seemed like the sort of thing a man like Greg would want at some point.  Good, solid man like Greg wouldn’t want to go through life with someone and just be, as Arthur would say, boyfriends. He’d want something permanent.  Some real commitment, but would Mycroft do that?  _Could_ he do that?  Martin wasn’t even convinced there wasn’t some clause in Mycroft’s employment contract that said he wasn’t allowed to have a real personal life, let alone have a spouse at home.

      “I’m sure it will make them both very happy, love.  Now, how about you and I get that bit of rest you promised me you’d take.  I’m sure that as soon as you start telling everyone your news, you’ll be so excited you won’t be able to get to sleep without… oh, I’d say more than a few lullabies.”

      “You’re probably right.  But… I can still have a lullaby, can’t I?”

      “You can have two tonight.  I feel up for a bit of singing.”

      “Brilliant!  The one about the baby lambs and cockatoos?”

      “I think I still remember the words.  That was one of your more… exotic… compositions.”     

      “Thanks!  I have an idea for another one, too.  With dancing vegetables.  I just have to decide which ones to include, because I hate to leave any out and have them feel bad.”

      “I’m sure you’ll find some compromise.  You always do.”

__________

Arthur wasn’t sure how long he’d slept but he felt like he was floating on a cloud because he was so rested and happy and his Skipper was in his arms and they were going to be husbands and there was probably a big rainbow outside.  Everything was brilliant!  And perfect and special and wonderful… and Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Watson were having their own happy nap… and it was time to go back to the hospital and check on Mycroft and Greg, which was brilliant!  It was so very odd that being at a hospital could be a fun thing, especially since it definitely wasn’t when Greg first got there, but now it was a great place to be!  He’d met new friends and got to spend lots of time making all sorts of pictures and laughed and sang and… just lots and lots of brilliant things and maybe having a brilliant time in a hospital was how it was supposed to be if you wanted someone to get well when they… when they were hurt as badly as Greg.

When his Skip was fast asleep, he slept like a very sleepy person, and it was easy for Arthur to sneak out of bed and get himself showered and dressed, put a large plate of sandwiches and some raw potato and tomato salad in the refrigerator, give his fiancé a kiss when he left his note on the bed stand and race to his car to get back to the hospital.  One day, maybe he could get a big, shiny car like Mr. Sherlock’s or a cute and slow van like Skip’s, but for now, his little car would be fine.  It got him places and didn’t… didn’t have any places he could really hide if something happened.  He’d have to be out there with whoever the something was happening to and even though Mycroft and Mr. Sherlock and Skip and everyone said he did the right thing by staying hidden, it still didn’t feel right.   Could something be right and not _feel_ right?  Was that even possible?

That’s how he felt about the wedding.  WEDDING!  It was brilliantly right, but wouldn’t _feel_ right until Greg was well.  Everything had to be perfect… really, really perfect… before they could have their wedding.  There couldn’t be anything left over from… from anything.  It had to be new and sparkly like one of those pretty vases that Mum said he couldn’t go near since they cost as much as he did and were much more useful.  Mum… oh, what was Mum going to say.  She’d actually not been mad that he and Skip were boyfriends, but being husbands was different.  They were going to live together and be together and maybe one day find a little baby they could raise.  There were lots of little babies out there without families.  He and Skip could go walking in the woods or by a river and maybe one day they’d find a little baby that someone had left and they could raise it and send it to school and even though he couldn’t help them with their lessons, Skip could.  Or he could call his London family and there were LOTS of people for help.  And Mum would LOVE a little baby to play with. Or not.  It was very hard to tell with Mum and… oh.  There was the hospital…

__________

      “Mycroft!  Hi!  And is… Greg!  You’re awake!  This is perfect!  No, it’s brilliant!  Hurray!”

      “Ah, Arthur.  How good of you to join us.  Gregory has just awoken from yet another of his inconvenient naps and we were debating the merits of catching up with the newspapers or allowing the televised news programs to fulfill our desire to know the current events.”

      “He’s lying, Arthur.  Trying to keep me from finding something good and sporty on the telly.  Says it’s too much excitement.”

      “Well, you do get _very_ excited when you watch a match.  Almost as excited as I do when I find a new game at the toy shop.  And you did break that glass that one time when your team did something stupid and that can’t be good for you now, even though you can’t reach a glass to throw and I don’t think any of the glasses here are actually made of glass, even though their called glasses, which would make you think they would have to be made of glass but these are plastic and we don’t call them plastics, but at least if you could reach one you couldn’t throw it and make a big mess like you did that one time and then swear a lot while you had to clean it up, which I didn’t listen to in case you were wondering.  I held the phone away from my ear and waited until you stopped shouting before listening in again.  That was ok, right?  I didn’t mean to ignore you, but my head gets spinny when people are shouty and sweary and it’s just best I wait for the whole thing to go away.”

Mycroft ran his hand along his Gregory’s arm, hoping to calm the man from laughing too forcefully and causing himself discomfort.

      “Then my point is made.  Gregory, you are barred from viewing any sporting event so as to not promote incidences of, shall we say, shoutiness or sweariness.  Does that seem prudent to you, Arthur?”

      “For the time being, I do think I have to agree.  Once Greg is well, then he can watch what he wants, though he really should try not swear at the telly because they can’t actually hear you.  I know, because I’ve really, really tried and they just can’t.”

      “I shall be vigilant with attempting to correct his misapprehensions.  Now, did you have an enjoyable rest?”

      “I did!  It was brilliant!  Absolutely the best rest I’ve ever had.”

      “Speaking as someone who’s done nothing but rest, was there a reason this one so good?  Extra soft pillow, maybe?  With freckles?”

      “Well, that’s true.  Skip _is_ nice and soft, especially since he’s not quite so skinny anymore, and having a nice, soft Skip to cuddle with does make for a very nice rest but…”

      “Arthur, my dear boy.  That is quite the indicting pause.”

      “Come again?”

      “He’s wondering if that little pause means you’ve got some other reason you got a good rest.  Come on, Arthur.  You look like you’re going to burst apart.”

      “I do?  That would make sense since I sort of feel like I’m going to burst apart.  That can’t actually happen though, can it?  I’m actually trying to figure out how much of what you feel like is what it’s actually like and that could be very helpful with my figuring things out.  I haven’t forgotten all of my detective assistant training and I know I’ll need facts before I can really make up my mind.”

      “At this point, I do not believe there is any medical or scientific evidence that one may simply ‘burst apart’ without the use of some form of explosive device.”

      “Oh.  Good!  That’s helpful.  Because it would be just awful if I blew up and then someone would have to clean everything and then I would be able to…”

      “He’s pausing again, Mycroft.”

      “Quite telling, Gregory.”

      “Arthur, is there something you want to tell us?”

      “Something, perhaps of a very exhilarating nature?”

      “I think that maybe I do.”

      “Then what the fu…hell are you waiting for?”

      “Well, I thought I was just going to say it outright, but then that seemed a little flip flap plop…”

      “Whatever was that?”

      “Just what it sounds like.  Sort of blah.  Pflut.  Urgghhhh, but with the gggghhhh getting really soft there at the end.”

      “Not eventful enough, you mean.”

      “Yes!  Just like that.  Then I thought I’d just shout it out, but that’s not really a good thing here and I just wagged my finger at Greg for being a tad shouty at the telly, so that got rather crossed off my list.  I could try and dance it, but I’ve not really figured out how to make letters when I dance.  I mean an “O’ is pretty easy, so is a ‘T’ and an ‘F,’ but after that it gets a bit hard.”

      “I believe, then, the prudent method would be to simply tell us and we shall mentally provide the additional effects to bolster the enthusiasm level beyond what you fear will be an uninspired declaration.”

      “You’d do that?”

      “Naturally.  Anything for you, my boy.  And Gregory and I are most anxious to hear your news.  It is news, correct?  Very important news?”

      “It is.  It really is.  Maybe the most important news ever.  Well, for me, not for everyone because it wouldn’t really apply to everyone, just me and Skip.  So ok… here goes…”

      “Arthur?”

      “I’ve gone a bit self-conscious.”

      “I’m going back to sleep.”

      “No!  Well, I mean it’s ok if you do because you need all of your rest, but… oh, give me a moment… Ok.  I think I’m ready.  Are you ready?”

      “We are most ready, Arthur.  And most eager.”

      “Ok.  Here goes.  Again.  Skip… That is to say, Skip and I… oh, this is a bit harder than I thought… deep breath… and I did it to, did you notice?  Take the deep breath, I mean.   Ok… oh, I say that a lot don’t I?  Skip and I… Skip and I are going to have a wedding and be husbands and get married and be together forever.  I think that covered it all.”

Mycroft thought diligently about when he had felt such a contented warmth inside his body and could only list a few occurrences, most centered around either his own love or the man standing in front of him anxious to hear the reaction to his announcement.  Of course, this was anticipated, but he had not predicted the magnitude of the emotional impact upon hearing the actual words.

      “Super!  Ah, Arthur, that’s great!  R… really great!”

      “Greg!  Don’t try and sit up!  Here, I’ll come over there.”

Arthur dashed over to the hospital bed where Lestrade was trying to pull together some semblance of physical strength to properly congratulate the newly-engaged cabin steward.  A quick bend over and Arthur was very carefully giving Greg a fingertip hug, much as he had the night they first met, when he made himself at home in Lestrade’s heart.

      “My sincere congratulations, Arthur.  There is no one more deserving of such happiness than you and cousin Martin.  And I trust that you will allow me to participate in the planning and organization of your nuptial ceremony?”

      “Brilliant!  You’re the best planner ever, Mycroft, so I know that if you’re on board we’ll have a smashing wedding!  I’m sure Skip will be a little funny about things, though; he’s already getting his head turned the wrong way over making sure things get paid for properly, but that’s just his way.”

      “Yes, he is a funny one isn’t he… oh my…”

Mycroft received his own Shappey-sized hug and already his mind was reviewing the tentative plans he and Mrs. Knapp-Shappey had agreed upon.  Perhaps her preference for a smaller and more tasteful event might need to be modified somewhat to accommodate one of the groom’s more colorful personality.  He would have to investigate if there was a humane method to dye doves in a variety of rainbow hues…

      “He is, but that’s why I love him.  He’s Skip!  Little funny Skip with the cute bum.  But don’t tell him I said that last part because he goes all red when I mention his cute bum.”

      “Our lips are sealed.  Now, do you have a date in mind?  Rest assured that I will ensure that all relevant parties are available for your wedding ceremony.”

      “I’ll let you know as soon as I decide.  It’ll be a long time yet, so don’t worry about the surprise being HA!  and it’s tomorrow or something,”

Mycroft cut a surreptitious look over to his partner who gave as much of a shrug as was possible.

      “Is there a reason for the protracted engagement?”

      “Well… oh.  Ok, yes, there’s a reason, but…”

      “You are not prepared to voice it as of yet?”

      “Yes.  Or no.  No, I think I was right the first time and the answer is yes.  Unless it’s no and I’m getting fuddled again.”

      “Don’t worry, Arthur.  You can set your wedding date anytime you feel like it and we’ll be there all suited up and half-drunk ready to give you a grand time.”

      “That’s the point!  Brilliant!  I knew you’d understand, Greg.  Maybe only you, but _you_ would definitely.”

A small gong sounded in Lestrade’s head and he did his best to appear to look around as if wanting something.

      “Gregory?”

      “Just looking for maybe a little of Arthur’s favorite juice.  Think you can find me some, Mycroft?  Can’t be on my ‘do not feed’ list, after all, it’s just juice.”

Mycroft studied his partner and read the man’s very insincerely-innocent grin perfectly well.

      “I shall endeavor to find something appropriate.  Arthur seems to have collected a bounty of friends from the cafeteria personnel and I am sure they will be happy to oblige such a small request.”

      “They will!  They’re the best and they do have very nice juice.  Not the kind that Mum buys, but juice in these VERY large containers and it’s quite tasty and you don’t feel bad drinking more than you normally would because… well, the containers are VERY large.”

      “Excellent.  I shall return soon.”

Mycroft reached over and patted Lestrade’s hand, providing the obligatory raised eyebrow to indicate his detection of the deception.  The cheeky grin he received in response was more evidence of their perfection as a couple.

      “Ok, Arthur.  He’s gone.  What didn’t you want to say?”

      “I didn’t say there wasn’t anything I didn’t want to say.”

      “Oh, don’t try and fool a cop, lad.  You should know we pick up on things pretty quickly, what with you being a detective’s assistant and all.”

      “Part-time.”

      “Doesn’t matter.  Now, get started.”

Arthur took Mycroft’s vacated seat and slid it as close to the bed as possible, so that he could speak in hushed tones though they were the only ones in the room.

      “I told Skip that we had to wait for the wedding.”

      “Ok, want to tell me why?”

      “Do I have to?”

      “No, but I think it’d be good for you if you did.  I mean if you’re having second thoughts or have doubts…”

      “Not at all!  Not one tiny bit!  It’s just… it’s like you said.  I want everyone there and having a good time and happy and well and no one’s hurting or in a wheelchair and there’s nothing that will make me remember anything bad on the one day that’s supposed to be all about being happy.  Is that… is that wrong?”

Lestrade wished more than anything he could move so that he could offer Arthur the comfort the poor lad needed… and that it wasn’t his fault that Arthur was feeling hesitant about setting his wedding date.

      “No, it’s not wrong.  It makes a lot of sense, actually.”

      “It does?”

      “Sure, it’s your big day and you don’t want any reminders of old troubles tossing a wrench into your gears.  I’m sorry, though.  I know I’m the wrench you’re thinking about and I am truly sorry for that, Arthur.”

      “Don’t think that way!  Really, don’t.  It’s not you.  Not really.  It’s everything and it’s not your fault that you’re the part that’s going to last the longest.  Oh, that doesn’t sound right.  I want you to last a long time.  A very long time, just not hurt and able to dance with Mycroft and smile all the way through the wedding and not have any pain or worry and I don’t want to either.”

      “So, I’m sort of you guidepost, huh?  When I get fixed up, it closes the door on that night and we can both move on.  That sort of what you’re thinking?”

      “Yes!  That’s it!  That’s really exactly it!  I knew you’d understand… Skip doesn’t.  He thinks I’m daft, even if he won’t say it, I know that’s what he thinks.”

      “Is he trying to pressure you…”

      “Oh no!  No… he says we can wait as long as I want and he means that, he really does.  He just doesn’t understand…”

      “Well, he doesn’t need to, does he?  Sounds like he’s happy to do what you feel you need to even without any understanding on his part.  That’s a good thing.  A really good thing.  So don’t worry if he doesn’t quite get it right now.  It’s not that important.  Not in the long run.”

      “I guess you’re right.  It makes sense now that you say it.  That’s why I like talking to you, Greg.  You say things in a way that makes sense.  Mycroft and Mr. Sherlock… they’re so smart, but sometimes I spend so much time trying to figure out what they’re saying that I forgot what they were saying!  But not with you.  You and Doctor Watson and sometimes Skip, though he can go his own wiggled-waggledy way on occasion, I can follow you without any problem at all.”

      “Yeah, that’s me and John.  We’re the straight-ahead ones in the crowd.  No wiggledy-waggledy on our team.”

      “What on Earth is wiggle… I cannot continue.”

      “None of your business.  Like a password for our secret club.”

      “And who comprises the membership of your secret club, my dear?”

      “Me.  Arthur.  Yep, that pretty much c…covers it.”

      “Highly exclusive.  I heartily approve.”

      “But you can join too, Mycroft!  I don’t want you to feel left out.”

      “I, unfortunately, must decline for I shall in no fashion be able to utter your secret password once, let alone to gain admittance to each of our meetings.”

      “Oh, then it’s ok then.  It’ll be me and Greg and oh!  I’ll have to make some badges or something.”

      “You do that and I’ll wear it p…proudly.”

Arthur looked over to Mycroft, having caught the second slight stumble in Lestrade’s speech.

      “I’m sure you would, Gregory, however, that will have to wait.  You have fatigued yourself.”

      “No I haven’t.”

      “You lie as poorly as John.”

      “Good company, then.  Tell you what… damn…”

      “Gregory, what are you doing, still yourself!”

      “Where’s my wallet?”

      “Do you believe you are going to be in need of identification?”

      “Where is it?”

      “If you must know, it resides in some local repository of refuse.”

      “They binned it?”

      “It was in your jacket, if you remember.”

Lestrade heard Arthur’s little whimper and shared a small grimace with Mycroft.

      “Ok, did anyone at least think to keep the s…stuff in it?”

      “Naturally.  What is it you require?”

      “My bank card.”

      “Are you planning to use it as some form of token for one of Arthur’s games?”

      “That would be brilliant!  I have one, too.  Mum puts my allowance money into my account every week but it would be so much fun to use it in a game!  We could toss them at a target or, oh!  they spin nicely, so we could have a little contest on whose could spin longest or we can use them to mark our places on one of my board games.   Great idea, Mycroft!  So, where’s Greg’s?”

Mycroft frowned at his bedridden partner, but obligingly retrieved the bank card from his own wallet.

      “May I ask why you desire an item that you cannot possible use in your condition, game piece notwithstanding?”

      “You may.  Hand that over to Arthur.”

Lestrade earned yet another frown, but Mycroft handed the card into Arthur’s hands.

      “Arthur, do me a favor, will you?”

      “Anything!”

      “Since I’m st…stuck here and can’t take you out to celebrate your good news, take that and treat yourself and Mycroft to a… what the hell time is it anyway?  Well, treat yourself to something to eat or some of the ice cream you love so much.  He hasn’t been out of here except for that one hop over to London and I think he could use a good airing out.  C…can you handle that for me?”

      “Brilliant!  What a great idea!  And it’ll be just like you were there with us, since I have something from you to bring with us.  Doesn’t that sound great, Mycroft?  We can have a nice meal and ice cream and maybe… yes!  Greg can have ice cream can’t he?  It’s soft and easy to chew and that shouldn’t give him any trouble and we can bring some back…”

      “I would doubt that would be a problem, however, if we return and Gregory is again in repose his portion would melt and that would diminish his enjoyment, would it not?”

      “Oh, good point.  Though ice cream soup _is_ brilliant, I’d really want Greg’s first ice cream after waking up to be top notch.  Sorry Greg, no ice cream this time, but soon, ok?”

      “Soon is fine, Arthur.  Now you two go on and have yourself a nice celebration.  Should I expect the other lads to be stopping by later?”

      “I would think so.  They were still sleeping when I left, but I’m sure Doctor Watson will want to come by and see how you are doing and if Doctor Watson comes by then Mr. Sherlock will probably come by and Skip won’t want to be alone so he’ll come by too, so I guess yes!”

      “Then it would behoove our Gregory to rest himself fully to prepare for their arrival.  Arthur would you be so kind as to excuse us a moment while I make Gregory comfortable for my absence?”

      “Sure!  I’ll go get the car running.  It likes to run a little before I actually drive it so it doesn’t get hiccups.”

And on that note, Arthur gave Lestrade another fingertip hug, whispered ‘thank you’ in his ear and skipped out of the room, leaving Mycroft favoring his companion with a glare more withering than any Sherlock could craft, even with practice.

      “What?”

      “Explain yourself.”

      “Think I’ll nap instead.”

      “Gregory Lestrade, you explain yourself this instant.”

      “Arthur needs a little celebration for his good news and you need some time away from here doing something r…relaxing.”

      “I certainly do not.”

      “Yeah, you do.  Take some time for yourself, Mycroft.  Just enjoy a nice bit out, ok?”

Mycroft opened his mouth to detail exactly how foolish Lestrade was being, but John’s advice began to echo in his head.  He _had_ been here every possible moment, taking advantage of the meager amenities the room provided and the supplies delivered and removed by Arthur or Martin.  Do not allow Gregory to take on guilt over being a perceived burden… that he must take to heart…

      “If it is your wish, my dear, I will oblige.  Out of earshot of your room, I am quite sure young Arthur will release his retrained enthusiasm, which must be stressing him terribly at this point and that would not be conducive to your own relaxation, though it will be delightful for me.  However, I will not be long, so do not attempt to make a temporary escape to the nearest pub.  I will be most cross if I receive a message that you are being taken into custody for public indecency for trying to purchase alcohol dressed only in a gossamer gown.”

      “Oh, you just had to put that idea in my head didn’t you?  I’ll promise, though, but only because I can’t spare the energy to put on the new pants Arthur bought me and I’d rather not have my arse on display now that it’s sporting your ‘Property Of’ mark,”

      “Now who is putting ideas into whose head, my dear?”

      “Maybe when I can actually r…roll over.”

      “In time, Gregory.  In time.  Now, I do believe Arthur has had time to prepare his vehicle.  Is there anything you require before I depart?”

      “Nah, I’m good.”

Mycroft watched Lestrade try to reposition slightly and fail miserably, to the Detective Inspector’s obvious frustration.

      “Gregory…”

      “I’m fine.  Really… just wish I could get out of this bed.  Or even move in this bed.”

      “That you are able to be as communicative and alert as you are currently is a blessing, my dear.  You are doing very well and John is immensely proud of your progress.  Do not wish for things that exceed your already extraordinary accomplishments.”      

      “It doesn’t feel extraordinary.  Feels pretty fucking pathetic.”

      “None of that.  I shall not listen to you belittle your strength and force of will.  Now, I am leaving to entertain young Arthur.  We will, if you choose, have a discussion about this when I return.”

      “Ah crap.  Don’t worry about it.  Just being silly.  Go give Arthur the biggest celebration my bank account can provide.  And I better see that on my statement, do you hear me?  This is _my_ treat for the boy.”

      “I will abide by your wishes entirely, however, any matter beyond the classification of a meal and ice cream shall be mine to indulge.”

      “You’re softer than Mr. Snowball.”

      “But I look much better in a suit.”


	44. Pushing Aside Some Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so very much for all of your wonderful encouragement and support... I am absolutely grateful for every comment and kudo this piece receives...

      You’ll like this place, Mycroft.  They have lots of things that are brilliant!  And the tea is quite nice, even though it isn’t as strong as mine.  And look!  There’s a booth!  I love booths!”

Arthur ran and slid into the booth with a ‘hurray!’ and immediately began to study the menu.  Mycroft strolled forward and, after ascertaining that the bench was at least moderately clean, took the seat opposite the young man humming away and tapping his knife on the tabletop in a valiant approximation of rhythm.

      “This does appear a genial establishment.  Quite appropriate for a celebration of your engagement.  At least for now.  You will, of course, have a proper engagement party in the near future.  I am considering several locations that might appeal to you and cousin Martin, though I would appreciate at least a full day’s notice if you decide upon one of the Disney properties.  I would hate to have to evict so many children in a single swift action.  I do not believe I could abide the weeping and proliferation of mucus.”

      “Aaaahhhh…. Disney?  Oh, my head is now awash with images of brilliance.”

      “Well put, my boy.  But there are other options we may discuss at your leisure.  Am I to understand that you desire to enjoy your engaged status for an extended period?”

      “Yes.  And Greg said that was ok.  He understood and said it was ok.”

      “And it is.  There is no official timeframe that such events must follow.  In your own time or not at all is perfectly acceptable.  Regardless of the date you choose, you shall have a wedding that royalty would envy.”

      “Brilliant!  And everyone will be there and it will be the best thing ever!  And couples!  Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Watson, me and Skip, of course since it’s our wedding, and you and Greg!  For all of the horrible things that have happened, it’s a little hard to be completely sad since… couples!  And Greg’s going to get well so much faster now that you’re a real couple and he knows that you love him and not… _him_.  Oh… you got a bit cloudy there… Mycroft, you didn’t change your mind, did you?”

      “What?  Good heavens, no.  That was artifice, Arthur.  Deception.  Duplicity.  Very well done, if I do say so myself, but it was sleight-of-hand and nothing more.”

      “Oh. That’s good then.  Did you… did you tell him yet?  That you aren’t boyfriends anymore?”

Mycroft was quite certain that Edgar was no longer laboring under any mistaken impression on that subject.

      “I _have_ informed him of that fact.”

      “Was he upset?”

      “Arthur, his feelings on the matter are not important.”

      “No, I suppose not.  Did you… have the police arrested him yet?”

      “The police are not involved, however, do not worry that Edgar has escaped justice.”

      “Really?  What happened?”

Not a topic of polite conversation.

      “Let us just say, he has been called to account for his actions.”

      “And what does that mean?”

      “He has stood at the foot of the gallows and felt its shadow fall upon him.”

      “Even _I_ know that’s you trying to put me off the trail, Mycroft.  Really, it’s like you weren’t even trying.”

Mycroft actually thought he’d demonstrated sufficient poetical distraction to ignite Arthur’s pachinko-like brain patterns into a flurry of proverbial bells and whistles, but Arthur’s mental powers were apparently operating behind fortifications today.

      “My apologies.  I shall try to be more precise.  He suffered a judgment concomitant with his misdeeds.”

      “Oh, my head hurts from that one.  But it was better than the shadow thing.”

      “I am gladdened that I exhibited improvement.”

      “Does that mean you’ll just tell me without fancy words now?  I can make it hard on you if you don’t.”

Arthur pulled every condiment on the table over to his side and surrounded them with his arms as if he was a dragon protecting his horde.  Despite himself, Mycroft had to laugh at the fierce glare he was receiving from the other side of the barricade.

      “The score has been settled, Arthur.  Edgar is no longer in a condition to do harm to anyone.”

      “Did… did something happen to him?  Something bad, I mean?”

Bad was an amusingly benign word for the circumstances.

      “He has been, shall we say, disabled from performing another act of atrocity against another person.

      “Disabled?  That means hurt, doesn’t it?  Or... like having a problem so you’re in a wheelchair or need a doggie and a cane.”

      “The term _can_ be used for those circumstances.”

      “He was fine, though, when he shot Greg.  I mean I didn’t see him, but I don’t think Greg would have been as nervous about me if Edgar had been on crutches or something similar and I didn’t hear a doggie bark and I’m sure it would have when the g…gun went off.”

      “Arthur, we should perhaps leave this conversation for another time.  You shall quite spoil your appetite.”

      “Maybe, but I’d rather do this first.  You’re being a bit cagey and that always means one thing – you’re trying not to tell me something.  I don’t know why you and the rest do that, I really don’t.  I mean, maybe I’ll get upset or afraid or have a small cry, but I’m not a little kid who can’t talk about adult things.  I can, you know.”

      “I know, Arthur.  It is simply that we do not wish to have you become upset when it can be avoided.  We don’t want to bother you with any unpleasantness.”

      “Well, I _want_ to be bothered.  If everyone else is getting the unpleasantness, I want my share, too.”

Mycroft had to admit that, despite his wishes very strongly to the contrary, there was merit to Arthur’s argument.  Especially now since he would be embarking on a new life where he would assume greater independence and responsibility than he currently experienced.  However, an edited version of the truth was still very much in order.  The boy had truly no concept of _how_ unpleasant some things could be.

      “As you wish.  Yes, Edgar has been physically prohibited from inflicting his particular venomous intentions on any other human being.”

      “Are you sure?”

      “I saw to it myself.”

      “Did you… did you punch him?”

      “That was not the specific action, however, it was as debilitating.”

Mycroft was surprised to find Arthur’s glare intensifying and the condiments drawn so close that is was only the young man’s chest that prevented them falling onto the floor.

      “Arthur, is something amiss?”

      “You’re still keeping things from me.  You haven’t looked me in the eye once and you’ve used your smoosh grin at least twice.  Maybe three times.  I’m not sure about one of them entirely.”

      “My smoosh grin?  I do believe I am unfamiliar with the description.”

      “Well, it’s sort of like a grin, but you’re not really happy so it doesn’t lift up properly and just stays sort of smooshed.  You tend to do it a lot around Mr. Sherlock, if that helps.”

Oh, it did.  He was quite certain that to which Arthur was referring.  How observant of the young man to have already noticed and correctly classified the expression.  He was most surely not someone to underestimate as Mycroft was prone to forget.

      “If I tell you that it is a distressful story, one that you would not take well in the least, would you simply take my word, as a protector of your welfare, and leave the matter be?”

      “No.  Because you only make the smoosh grin when you’re not happy, so you’re not happy and that makes me unhappy even with my getting asked to marry Skip.  You don’t really want me to be _that_ not happy do you?”

      “Arthur, are you attempting to affect some form of pleading eyes?”  

      “They’re called puppy eyes and… yes.”

      “Is it a form of manipulative behavior?”

      “I must admit that it is, which is why I don’t use it often because it’s rather not nice in a way, but it does work quite well.  You want to tell me now, don’t you?”

      “You are mistaken.”

      “See, I’m doing it harder.  You’re not going to be able to resist for long.”

      “I think I shall.”

      “I think not.  See how I’ve got my lip quavering?  You might as well give in right now.”

And as well he might.  How could one sad-eyed, pouty individual prompt an intense desire for Mycroft to do anything the lad wanted without hesitation or reservation?  It was mind-boggling the absolute and far-reaching power of young Arthur and his sweetly-devastating ways…

      “There was perhaps more than an, as you say, _punch_ involved.”

      “How much more?”

      “There were a number of… injuries involved.”

      “Bad ones?”

      “Grave.”

      “Oh, and that means like ‘ _a_ grave’ doesn’t it?”

      “Perceptive.”

      “Oh.”

      “I did caution you…”

      “Did he actually go into the grave that was actually a real grave and not a word grave?”

      “Not while in my presence, no.”

      “Well, that’s something then.”

Mycroft watched Arthur’s face, which was no longer glaring at him or puppy dog-ish and he simply hoped that Arthur wouldn’t think of him too poorly now that he had made his revelation, sanitized as it was.

      “Can I ask… Mycroft, was this sort of like it was when you were mean to Greg?”

Now that was unexpected.  And uncannily perceptive.

      “It was a similar thing.  I had somewhat forgotten that you had prior knowledge of my rather _disagreeable_ side.”

      “And it is _very_ disagreeable, but that’s ok because you know it is and you try not to let it out to run around like one of those lizards that gets on his back legs and chases people, which has to be about as scary as you probably are when you’re being mean, and you don’t act like that _all_ the time, only when you think you need to like when you were worried that I was lost looking for little Helen and then because _he_ hurt Greg and those other people.  It’s not nice to hurt people, Mycroft, but no one is perfect, so don’t feel too bad.  It isn’t like you hurt someone for no reason or because it made you happy, which would be quite strange.  But you’re not strange at all, so there you have it!”

      “I do not think Sherlock would agree.”

Now that was a misstep of mountainous proportions.

      “Mr. Sherlock?  Why would he… wait. He went to London with you.  Did he… does he know what happened?”

Why bother to conceal anything?  Arthur would ferret it out no matter the attempts at obfuscation.

      “He was actually present at Edgar’s chastisement.”

      “And he got to see you being mean to him.”

      “Yes, and I am afraid it painted me in an even darker light than that with which he already views me.”

      “One more time?”

      “Sherlock carries a poor image of me, as you are quite aware, and I feel quite confident that image has become even more tarnished.  I would be quite surprised if even the cold contempt in which he holds me turns rather towards a bitter disgust, though I shall not suffer it often for he will absent himself from my presence to an even greater degree than normal.”

      “That’s a lot of words to say Mr. Sherlock had a bit of a turn and might be a little unsure about you right now.”

      “Yes, it was.  It is often easier to gentrify a rough sentiment through the copious application of words.”

      “If that means you talk a lot when you have something upsetting to say, then you’re right.  But at least I know that, so I know what’s going on even if I don’t know _exactly_ what’s going on.  And, just so you know, I think you’re a bit daft about Mr. Sherlock.”

Arthur had relaxed back to the point of having his smile restored to his face and had begun pushing salt and sugar back towards the center of the table.

      “And may I know the basis of your reasoning?”

      “Well, Mr. Sherlock _is_ rather a bit sticky about you, that I cannot deny, but he’s sort of cute about it, really.  Like a little tyke who is a bit fussy about things and can get tantrumy when he doesn’t get his way.  I’m sure it’s not a lot of fun for you, because he doesn’t ever seem to _not_ be that little tyke when you’re nearby, but being a fussy boy doesn’t mean he’s a hateful boy.  Not one tiny bit!  I just think he doesn’t know what he wants, like a little baby, so he cries and does that angry shaking thing they do when they’re very upset and no one is giving them what they want, not that anyone knows because adults don’t speak baby language, which I honestly don’t understand since we all spoke it at one point in our lives and now we can’t understand a word of it at all!  Anyway, he doesn’t know what he wants and maybe he can’t tell you what he wants even if he knew because he only speaks baby language and he gets angry and fussy and when other people hold him it’s somehow different and he coos and burps and does a lot better.  I think you just need to learn how to burp him and everything will be ok.”

      “That is the most frightening image with which I have ever been presented.”

      “Well, it’s true.  And frightening things _are_ very true sometimes, like the running lizard or killer dolls.  And maybe he did see you being very mean, but… hasn’t he seen that before?”

Never.  It was never something he allowed for any reason.

      “No.  That was not something of which Sherlock needed knowledge.”

      “Well there you go.  It’s not his fault he’s gotten his brain thumped.  I mean… well, I guess I know a little about how that would feel what with Skip and his _little problem_.  I didn’t know anything about it.  Nothing at all and then all of a sudden WHACHA! there it was and I did have a thumped brain for awhile and it was hard to think about Skip and _little problem_ and make it fit with Skip without his _little problem_ , but now I know that he has that _little problem_ and I have to watch out for it and it does sometimes put some dark paint on his day and so my day gets a little dark paint, too.  But that’s ok because it’s just who Skip is, just like it’s how you are and Mr. Sherlock isn’t stupid so he knows that and when his thumped brain stops bobbing about in his head I bet you’ll see that it’s not going to be bad that he knows about your own _little problem_.   He’ll still be a fussy baby, but not much fussier than usual.”

Mycroft leaned back in the booth and thought about what Arthur had said.  Sherlock’s opinion of him was based on Sherlock’s own mental fabrications, but this time he had not been able to turn a blind eye to a truth about his brother and it was a very painful truth at that.  Perhaps… perhaps it was actually a good thing.  He had told Sherlock that he did not know him, did not _try_ to know him and knew himself that his brother was studiously ignoring every word that he spoke.  That was no longer possible.  At least not for this one instance and maybe that would impel his brother to look for other truths.  To begin to observe and not assume.  Good may never come of it, but at least there would be some honesty behind Sherlock’s derision.  And wouldn’t that be a very refreshing change…

As the server approached their table, Mycroft drew in a deep breath felt a knot in the center of his body begin to unwind.  Arthur was glaringly overly-generous and kind in describing his nature, but it gave him a small sense of hope that all was not as bleak as he often found his mind pronouncing.  Gregory was accepting of who he was, even knowing intimately the shadowed corners of his soul.  He had anticipated his actions and not voiced an objection beyond setting a limit.  And trusted that the limit would be respected.  Arthur’s affections had not wavered even slightly with his admissions.  Martin had not retreated into his proverbial shell, as he was wont to do when faced with an unsettling situation.  Sherlock may or may not provide John with details of their initiative, but John would at least confront him if he were unduly disturbed with any revelations and that offered opportunity for discourse to offer his explanation.  More and more the knot loosened…

      “Mycroft?  Are you ready to order?  You haven’t actually looked at the menu, but they probably have anything you might like if you just asked.”

      “I believe I shall leave the ordering to your capable hands.”

      “Brilliant!  I love ordering at restaurants.  It’s like a wonderful game that you can’t possible lose!”

      “And do be extravagant in your choices.  Gregory would be most displeased if he learned you did not take full advantage of your celebration.”

      “Oh, I will.  Greg will be thrilled and notice… I put his card right there so it can be part of things just like we are.  And… when he’s feeling a little better maybe we can have another little celebration, even if he’s still in his bed. We can bring take-away and he can have some and the he’ll be there for real and not just as a game token on the table.”

Arthur spent the next few minutes talking to the server and at full half of those minutes were actually spent placing an order for food.

      “So, can we?”

      “I would presume that it is possible.  As long as John approves the menu, of course.  And I know for certain that Gregory is most desirous of something solid and filling, rather than the liquid nutrition to which he has been condemned of late.”

      “Then I’ll talk to Doctor Watson and find out the facts.  And… are you feeling a little better?  Your smoosh grin is gone and I am thinking that is a very good thing.”

Mycroft had no doubt that Christmas shopping this year would be the most delightful of his lifetime.

      “I am and all because of your dedicated efforts.  Now, is there anything I can do to return the favor?  Something that would lift your own spirits, though I cannot envision that being possible with your very joyful news.”

      “Hurray!  That’s a hurray for my wedding, in case that wasn’t clear.  Oh, and there _is_ something I was wondering about and you’re the smartest person alive so I would expect that you would know the answer.”

      “I shall commit my full analytical skills to your problem.”

      “Brilliant!  Well, it’s like this.  I know that when Mum got married, Dad gave her an engagement ring.  And Douglas said he gave them to his wives, too.  But, I don’t know what to do for Skip.  Neither of us is a lady, so I’m not sure what to do about that sort of thing.  I want Skip to have something that says he’s going to be my husband and I’d like something to say that I’m going to be his, but I don’t know what to do.  And the rings they sell for the ladies are a bit… lady-y, even though they are very sparkly and just brilliant, but I can’t see wearing one and I know Skip would think I’d gone loony if I handed him something like Mum had.  What should I do?”

Something that Mycroft realized he might want to consider in the future.  In the far future, of course, but there might come a day when he would ask Gregory a certain question that would make this discussion personally relevant.

      “I do believe you could have rings crafted that were for a more masculine taste.  They could also serve as your wedding rings, if you chose.”

      “Oh… no, I want a real wedding ring that’s just my wedding ring and nothing else.”

      “Quite traditional.  I highly approve.  You could, perhaps, affect another form of jewelry to serve the same purpose as an engagement ring.”

      “Like what?”

      “Watches?  A matching set of fine watches would be an appropriate statement.”

      “That _is_ a thought, but then I’d have to put away my watch set and I really like my watch set since I have one for every day of the week.  Monday is Mickey, Tuesday is Minnie, Wednesday is Donald…”

      “Yes, the picture has become quite clear.  And I would hate to see you leave behind your very unique timepieces when there are other possible options.”

      “Such as?”

Luckily for Mycroft, the server and an assistant arrived and began to fill the table with plate after plate of foodstuffs that Mycroft was only somewhat confident began life as something living.  But, Arthur dove in happily and it was doubtful that a few forkfuls of the offerings would be lethal.  However, it did little to incite his brain to producing any further ideas for wedding jewelry.  It was a rather puzzling dilemma.

      “I would assume that any piece of jewelry that you enjoy could be considered for use.  You do not have piercings in your ears, so I presume ear jewelry is not suitable.”

      “Not for Skip, at least.  I wouldn’t mind getting to wear earrings.  There are some very nice ones and very fun ones I see at the shops that would look quite smashing with some of my outfits and hats, but I don’t think Skip would be as happy about that as I would.  He can be a bit stodgy about things like that sometimes.  He won’t even let me decorate his Captain’s hat for holidays!”

      “That _is_ rather stodgy of him.  So let us continue.  I personally am not an advocate of any form of neck jewelry, but that may appeal to you.”

      “You mean like a necklace?  I think that would be brilliant, but Mum probably wouldn’t let me wear it over my clothes when we fly and Skip would never wear his on top of his uniform and what good would that be in letting people know we were almost-husbands?”

      “Point taken.  And, neither of you wear ties during your off hours, so a tie pin is out of the question… I am afraid, Arthur that my reservoir of ideas is beginning to run dry.”

      “Mine too!  Oh, this isn’t good.  Not good at all.”

Arthur rapped his fingers on the table as he thought and the clatter of his watch on the wood put Mycroft onto his last idea.

      “Though you have your watch set to adorn one arm, your other wrist is quite bare.  A bracelet?  It is not to the taste of all men, but some do find them appealing.”

      “A bracelet?  A bracelet.  We could wear them all the time and people could see them and know we were going to get married and I do know that people put writing inside them like they do on rings… BRILLIANT!  Oh Mycroft, that is the best possible idea in the history of ideas.  This is why I ask you things.  I always get the most wonderful answers.”

      “I am honored to be of service.”

And very relieved he had not failed in Arthur’s challenge.

      “I shall employ a jeweler with whom you may work to design and craft a suitable piece for yourself and Martin.  Consider the final products my own engagement gift to you and I expect that you will create something that will absolutely amaze anyone who is privileged enough to lay eyes upon them.”

Of that, Mycroft had really very little doubt.  Arthur’s creativity run wild was both a glorious and fascinating thing.

      “Thank you!  Really, Mycroft, thank you so much.  That’s the best thing a person could do for someone getting married.  And I won’t let you down.  I’m going to start drawing and oh! I have twine and beads and feathers and all sorts of things that I use to think with my hands and make a model and Skip can help, though he’ll probably just let me do what I want because he’s brilliant that way, and I can talk to the jeweler and we can make my model into something real and wonderful and…. it is very hard to dance when you’re in a booth, but I do think I am doing a good job of it because I’m so happy!”

And he was… Arthur was sliding and shuffling and twisting and Mycroft laughed as freely as he seemed to do so easily when Arthur or Gregory was the source of his amusement.  In truth, Mycroft had forgotten over the years how enjoyable laughter could be.

      “You are giving a very appealing performance.  Now, shall we focus on our meal?  I would hate for you to suffer cold food for your engagement celebration.”

      “I suppose we should.  Though cold food is fun, too.  It usually gets a bit sticky and things you needed a fork for when it was hot, you can eat in big chunks with your fingers once it’s cold!  But you will find a jeweler soon, won’t you?  I want to get the engagement bracelets as soon as possible so Skip and I can show them off.”

      “I shall have someone here tomorrow, if you wish.  I would say immediately, however, you have yet to give the design due thought.”

      “Good thinking.  Tomorrow will be fine.  I’ll work on it all night and then I’ll be ready for MY ENGAGEMENT BRACELET!  BECAUSE I’M GETTING MARRIED!”

And Arthur was eating and dancing and Mycroft was content to sip passable tea and watch with a doting and loving eye.  Soon, it would be time to plan the engagement party, then the various smaller gatherings, then the wedding and honeymoon, the new home and furnishings… so many wonderful things in the boys’ future and he would get to play a role in all of that.  It was what he had always hoped for and now it was coming true.  And, there was something _else_ he had always hoped for and that was to have all of those things for himself… astoundingly, that particular dream was appearing more and more like it might someday come true…


	45. There Will Always Be Clouds, But They Don't Kill The Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, and with my usual sincerity, thank you all for your support and kind words!

Martin woke alone, but he had expected that he would.  Arthur would be frantic to get back to the hospital, especially with the news he was carrying.  They were getting married.  He was marrying Arthur Shappey.  He was going to be someone’s husband.  Him, the team mascot of the failures and hand-to-mouths… he was going to make the most wonderful man in creation his husband.  Surprisingly, very surprisingly actually, he wasn’t regretting the decision.  Not second-guessing or wanting to tie Arthur to a chair and interrogate him mercilessly to find out just what had gone wrong in the man’s head to agree to a proposal from someone like him.  For once, all was right in the world.  He was in love and was loved in return.  That was all he needed to make everything that was trying to claw their way out of his closet of insecurities settle down and take a nap for, at least, a little awhile.  There would be hard times, Martin had no doubt about that, but that wouldn’t be _all_ of the time.  And if things did get too bad… well, Carolyn might be hanging on by her fingernails, but Mycroft wasn’t.  Martin made himself a silent promise that he would not hesitate to bend his neck and ask for help if they needed it.  Really needed it.  Really, really, about ready to live in his van, needed it.  But he’d do it.  Arthur was worth whatever knock his pride took going hat in hand to Mycroft Holmes.

A quick swing out of bed and Martin was headed into the shower, walking out in a cloud of steam and into the human wall made of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

      “Oh no.”

      “We believe that you have information to divulge, Martin.  Please do so immediately so that John may congratulate you and I may have my tea.”

      “Spreading the love, Sherlock.  I’m touched.”

      “I shall have also have John make tea for you as a celebratory gesture.”

      “Sherlock, behave.  Well, Martin.  I’m not going to lie; we nearly ended up on the floor jumping out of our skins when Arthur erupted.  And by ‘we,’ I mean Sherlock who hid under the blankets until I made sure a banshee wasn’t sitting on the window sill.”

      “Do not malign my character, John.  And if we had been visited by a mythical creature, I would at least be the second in line for destruction, therefore having more time to escape or mount an attack.”

      “Oh, how I adore being your arrow fodder.”

      “I do not intentionally use you as a shield, John, but in the event of attack by Grimm’s Fairy Tales, I shall not hesitate to use any tool in my arsenal to preserve my usefulness to society.”

      “Hear that?  He’ll stand by and laugh when the unicorn puts its horn through my back.  And NO!  Do not make a crack about virgins.”

      “But it would have been amusing.”

      “Ok, you’re right.  I’ll put that one in your success column.”

Martin had to laugh because his cousin actually looked pleased.  As lucky as he was for finding Arthur, Sherlock was even more lucky to find John, because there couldn’t be more than one person on the planet who fit with him like a glove on a hand.

      “Anyway, back to Martin.  Are you going to give us the details or do we have to beat them out of you?”

      “Well, the details are rather… well, they’re a bit plain actually, but yes, there is a bit of news to share.  I asked Arthur to marry me over a sink of dirty dishes and he did me the honor of saying yes.”

It was amazing how telling someone about his upcoming exile from bachelorhood made Martin feel almost giddy inside.  Arthur must be about to shake apart at the hospital.

      “Congratulations!  Good for you, mate.  Really, I couldn’t be happier for the two of you.  You’ll be so happy together.  Feel free to jump in anytime, Sherlock.  In all seriousness, I think you two are perfect for each other.  Have you set a date?”

      “Arthur finds you an acceptable partner, therefore, I find no reason to offer objection to your proposed union.”

      “Coming from you, Sherlock, that’s high praise, so I’ll say thank you.  And, no, we don’t have a date set.  Arthur has some silly notion that we can’t get married until Greg’s completely healed or doom will rain down from the skies.”

      “That is quite understandable.”

Both Martin and John stared at Sherlock who was quite confused by their confusion.

      “Arthur is prone to a variant of what can be called ‘magical thinking,’ therefore it is not at all surprising that he would equate some supernatural significance to Lestrade’s wounding and recovery.  So long as Lestrade remains impaired the evil spell, so to speak, remains intact.  When Lestrade has fully recovered the curse will be broken and so forth and so on.  That should have been blinding obvious, even to the two of you.”

      “Well, I for one am not going to question your Vulcan mind meld with Arthur and assume you know what you’re talking about.  There you have it, Martin.  I’ll keep you updated and as soon as Greg’s nearing the finish line, I’ll let you know and you can rent your tux.”

      “If you believe for one moment, John, that Mycroft will not have a battalion of tailors and cordwainers descending on Martin and Arthur to fashion their wedding wear, then you are an idiot.”

      “Love you, too.  But he’s right.  You’re going to be outfitted like a maharajah.  Best make peace with that now and hope Arthur doesn’t want hats, too.”

      “Oh, he’ll want hats.  And Mycroft will probably let him make them himself.  But, I for one don’t care.  I’ll wear a million-pound tux and a hat decorated with cardboard bananas and polar bears, just so long as I walk away with Arthur on my arm.”

      “There you have it – true love in action.  Think about that next time you have something snarky to say about my jumper, Sherlock.”

      “I believe you _have_ a jumper patterned with bananas and polar bears, actually.

      “No.  Not anymore.  And it was just an abstract design, anyway.  Complete coincidence it was yellow and white and… alright that one _was_ awful.  But it was cheap and didn’t itch.”

      “The foundation of any quality wardrobe.  Not everyone’s gadding about with their tailor’s phone number as Number 1 on their contact list.”

      “Thank you, Martin.  It is good to know that I am acquainted with not one but two individuals with a genetic mutation that prohibited the formation of the proper neural pathways to guarantee good taste.  Now, I can begin to study a pattern and not an anomaly.  This does indicate, thankfully, that the societally-mandated wedding gifts you receive will not require an undue amount of thought on my part.  I may simply stroll through a novelty shop and fill my basket with dogs with bobbing heads, sombreros and stuffed creatures that make rude noises when they are squeezed.”

      “You’d have Arthur’s eternal gratitude.”

Martin wasn’t ever sure he’d get used to Sherlock’s smile being directed at him, or that Sherlock had a smile at all, but it wasn’t something he was never going to take for granted.

      “We shall begin the shopping process immediately upon our return.”

      “Actually, why don’t you two start that now?  At least for the basic household necessities.  There’s barely any paper products in the bathroom or kitchen and I had to dig behind a dusty canister marked ‘Don’t Forget!’ to find the last jar of jam.  And Sherlock’s been wearing my socks again and stretched them right out.”

Two sets of eyes stared at John, neither prepared to believe what their neighbors, the ears, had heard.

      “You want Sherlock and me to go shopping together?”

      “I’ve got to get to the hospital, Arthur’s already there, Mycroft refuses to leave.  Unless you think the house brownies are going to carry the bags, I think you two are the last option.  It’ll be painless, I promise.”

Both Sherlock and Martin’s clearly indicated their disagreement with John’s opinion in a manner both loud and provided with appropriately-objectionable gestures.

      “I’ll make a list.  Go to the shop most likely to have the items on said list.  Purchase items.  Do not deviate from the list on pain of death.  Do not forget items on the list on pain of greater death.  Return items and if item feels colder to hand than the air, place it in the refrigerator.  See?  Painless.  Unless you commit a felony of death, but I’ll do it quick so you won’t suffer.”

      “Sherlock, is this what married life is like?”

      “I would suspect it is, at least, a reasonable facsimile.”

      “Worth it?”

      “I would, on balance, say yes.  Do not, however, commit a felony of death.”

      “Ok, good talk.”

__________

      “I didn’t think I’d ever find you alone you old bastard.  What happened to the armed guard?  And Arthur?”

      “Off for a bite to celebrate the good news.  You’ve got that story, right?”

      “The wedding of the century?  Yeah, Martin filled us in… and the reason Arthur’s putting on the brakes for setting a date.”

      “Yeah, I know.  But, we had a talk about that and I understand what he’s thinking.  I don’t like it, but I can understand it.”

      “Me too.  Strangely, Sherlock’s got the least problem with it.  You’d think he’d be orating about the complete illogic of it all, but he’s just surprised the rest of _us_ were surprised.”

      “They’re oddly alike, you know.  Sherlock and Arthur… Got their own way of seeing the world and seeing it better than the rest of us at the same time.”

      “Don’t I know it?   I’m just glad that the ghouls at Baskerville don’t have a sample of their DNA to make some hybrid love child to unleash on the world.”

      “Please do _not_ give Mycroft any ideas.”

      “My lips are sealed.”

      “Sealed against what, if I may ask?”

Mycroft strolled into the hospital room with Arthur following closely behind and John had to wonder if the older Holmes had been watching them on one of his security feeds and timing his entrance for dramatic effect.

      “No you may not.  Sorry, but that’s between the non-Holmes’s in the room.”

      “Then I can know!   Tell me.  Oh, please… I have no idea what we’re talking about, but you can tell me anyway and I’ll still think it’s brilliant!”

      “Sorry, Arthur.  You’re already an honorary Holmes and soon to be one for real.  Me and the beat down over there are the only two free souls left.”

Neither John nor Lestrade missed the shy grin that sprang up on Arthur’s face and the prideful one that Mycroft began to wear.  It would be difficult to know exactly which was the more pleased about Arthur’s official entry into the Holmes clan.

      “Well, that is true.  But I don’t want to be left out in the rain for secret-sharing”

      “Even if it’s about your wedding presents?”

John gave Lestrade a ‘oh, smart move’ thumbs up, which Arthur didn’t catch, but Mycroft filed away from future reference.

      “WEDDING! And PRESENTS!  Really, are there two better words in the whole world?  Well, now that I think about it, I’d really have to think about it because I can think of a lot of words that are very nice like SKIP! and OSTRICHES!, so I may have to make a list and give it a look-over.”

      “You do that and in the meantime, Greg and I will keep our little chat about weddings and presents to ourselves so we don’t ruin any surprises.”

      “Brilliant!  I LOVE surprises!  But, just so you know, Skip and I don’t need much of anything.  Skip is a bit silly right now about where we are going to live, but we can live in his flat easily enough.  There’s plenty of room… well, there’s enough room… well, there’s room… and we can get one of those portable heaters so it’s better in the winter.   And between us, what we have won’t even fit in his flat, so I can’t image needing anything else.  Though maybe some shelves or boxes or whatnot to hold my toys and films and photograph albums… And that’s only until we get our little house which will the most brilliant little house in Fitton, so maybe only a few years, which isn’t much at all if you’re one of those giant tortoises, so why should it be bad for us?”

If there was one thing of which Mycroft Holmes was certain, it was that Arthur and Martin would not live one second in that hovel Martin called a residence.  Despite ideas to the contrary, Mycroft _had_ left the hospital on occasion, for brief meetings that were of sufficient importance to break his self-imposed exile, though the participants were required to come to Fitton for the discussions.  And he had taken the time to personally inspect Martin’s so-called flat.  Beyond the unacceptable level of noise and disruption, the sheer bleakness of his living space was intolerable and it pained Mycroft terribly to know that it could have been prevented.  If he had not been so tunnel-visioned on his brother, if his brother had not been so hell bent on self-destruction… if he had just spared one thought for the little boy who had once shared their lives, it _all_ could have been prevented.  But those times were in the past and the future was a much brighter place for his dear cousin and his new fiancé.  Though there would need to be another conversation about housing in the very near future and that was a conversation that Mycroft had no intention of allowing Martin to win.

John knew that gleam in Mycroft’s eye.  That was a gleam that said he was planning something and, owing to the conversation, he only hoped that when the key to Arthur’s perfect little house suddenly appeared in the boy’s hands, Martin wasn’t nearby to take a swing at his cousin.  Not that John thought the idea was a bad one, actually.  From what Sherlock described, he wouldn’t be at all comfortable letting the engaged couple start their new life on that foot.  But that line of thinking would have to wait until later.  Right now, he had work to do.

      “Well, no one said we were getting you house things, did they?  Ah ha… think on that one for awhile.  And you can do it right now, actually, because I’m kicking you two back out of the room so I can change Greg’s nappy… I mean dressings.  Won’t take long.”

      “I am terribly sorry, John, but you must be speaking in a pitch outside of my hearing range because I am quite certain I observed your mouth moving, yet heard not one word.  Ah, an empty chair.  Isn’t it convenient that it appears the moment I desire to sit and do a bit of reading.”

      “Mycroft, be somewhere else while I get this done. I’ll be quick, I promise.”

      “Ah, this looks interesting.  I believe this is one of yours, Arthur.  How bracing this appears, young detectives.   And brothers, also.  Quite intriguing.”

      “My Hardy Boys!  I was wondering where that ran off to.  It’s brilliant!  I’m trying to keep my detective-assistant skills up to snuff for when Mr. Sherlock wants me to help with another case.”

      “I admire your dedication.”

      “I’d admire you getting your arse out of here so I can take care of your forever boyfriend.  So, go.”

John's finger pointing at the door was roundly ignored by both Mycroft and Arthur, much to the doctor's displeasure.

      “Frank and Joe… how wonderfully American.”

      “Mycroft!”

      “John, let him stay.  You’re changing my plasters for christ’s sake not performing a circumcision.”

      “That’s not procedure.”

      “Since when do you care about procedure?”

      “Since now, so pretend you’re a gatekeeper and shut it.”

      “That’s horrendous.”

      “Yeah, sorry.  I’m losing my touch.”

      “Not that you had much to begin with.”

      “I _will_ be holding a couple of ice cubes before I get started.”

      “ _Hypocrytic_ oath is more like it.”

      “That’s a lot better than my go.”

      “And I’ve got holes.”

      “Which I need to tend to, so tell your…”

      “Doctor Watson?  If all you’re doing is putting on fresh bandages and Greg doesn’t mind, why can’t we stay and keep you company?”

      “No, Arthur.  Not going to happen.   _You_ need to go.  See if those cafeteria friends of yours will let you get us some tea or coffee or anything, ok?  Really, this won’t take long and…”

      “Oh dear, do I have to have a conversation with you, too?  I already had to be a bit stern with Mycroft about remembering that I’m not a little kid and if I have to be a bit stern with you… well that’s more being stern than I’ve _ever_ been in one day and that will certainly put me right off making the bracelet models that I was going to work on tonight.  You do not want to be responsible for that, do you?”

John was quite sure that if he began to tip toe through Arthur’s verbal minefield it would be a good long time before he was able to care for his patient, especially with an intractable Mycroft Holmes welded to the cheap hospital chair.  Despite very serious misgivings about what was going to happen, he made the only decision he could.

      “Fine.  You two can stay.  But remember that I said this was a bad idea when you realize that this _was_ a bad idea, got that?”

      “And my brother survives your nonsense?  I must admit that he has a fortitude with which I would not have credited him.”

      “Sit there, shut up and read your book.”

      “I believe I shall observe you instead.  The book will wait, but enjoying your discomfort is a rare event.”

      “Arthur, then you sit there and read a book.  Or draw or make another origami elephant… just so long as you stay over there.”

      “But you are all over there!  I don’t want to have to sit over here by myself.”

      “John, just what has crawled up your bum?  Let the boy join the party.  You just said it wasn’t a big thing…”

      “Greg, look… no.  No, why not?  Ok, why not?  This party needs another goer.  Come on over, Arthur.  Just… it’s ok if you have to leave.”

Arthur frowned a very puzzled frown, but scampered the few steps over to the hospital bed to stand next to Mycroft, taking Greg’s hand and giving it a squeeze before announcing quite emphatically that he was ready for the party.  John gave him a nod and gathered his supplies before starting to cut away the bandages that covered Lestrade’s chest.  As the first bit was pulled away, he heard the distressed gasp he had been waiting for from Arthur and saw the expected darkness fill Mycroft's eyes.

      “Dear heavens…”

      “Mycroft?  What’s wrong?”

      “Nothing… nothing, my dear.  Absolutely nothing of concern.”

John had hoped no one would have to get a good look at Lestrade’s injuries for a good while longer since… it wasn’t pretty.  And Arthur’s sniffling was a good indication that he shared that feeling.  John cut a quick glance over and was pleased that Mycroft had wrapped his arm around the boy and was giving him much-needed support.

      “Don’t fucking lie to me.  Arthur’s crying and you’ve gone white as a sheet.”

      “Greg, just relax, ok?  I’d rather not cut through a chunk of skin along with the gauze.”

It was Arthur’s soft ‘how would you even know?” that made the light go on in Lestrade’s head.

      “Mirror.”

      “I think that would be unwise, Gregory.”

      “Don’t make me ask again.”

      “Greg… you should listen t…to Mycroft.”

      “Weren’t you just saying you shouldn’t be treated like a kid?  Don’t do it to me, then.”

      “B…but you’re sick and everyone’s like a kid when they’re sick.  They get stories and soup and have the telly to themselves all day.”

Lestrade did not want to lose his anger, but wasn’t surprised it was slipping away like water through his fingers.

      “And you get whatever you want, too.  I want a mirror, so I get one because I’m sick.”

      “Oh, you do have a point.  I think we might have to do what he says, Mycroft.”

      “This is not a hostage negotiation, Arthur.”

      “John, it’s time for you to pull rank.”

Something the good doctor would love to do, if it had even a slip of a chance of working. Which it didn't.

      “And that’s worked so well in the past. Sorry, Greg.”

      “Very good, doctor.  I do believe the less stress placed on Gregory the better for his health.”

      “And this isn’t stressful?  Give me a mirror!”

      “Give it some time, Greg.  It’s for the best right now, believe me.”

John turned a little to watch the heart monitor, because his friend was fast becoming far more agitated than was healthy at the present time.

      “I cannot believe I’m being overruled for a stupid mirror!  I am not a child!”

      “Gregory!  Calm yourself!  You cannot persist with this upset.”

      “Listen to him, mate…”

No one heard the first click, but the second one made it through John’s soldier’s hearing and the third stopped Mycroft in his tracks.

      “Here.  I snapped a few photos with my phone.”

Arthur moved around Mycroft to be near the DI’s head and let him see the photographs he’d taken.  Lestrade made him scroll back and forth again and again before nodding and giving Arthur a very weak and watery smile.

      “Thanks, Arthur.  I think I’ve got it now.”

      “Gregory…”

      “Not right now, Mycroft.  Just not right now, ok?”

      “Of course, my dear.”

That would not stop Mycroft running his hand up and down Lestrade’s arm and continuing to do so while John checked, cleaned and rebandaged, getting a little help from Arthur to support Lestrade’s torso as he checked and redressed the exit wound on his back.  No one made any mention of the new quiet in the room or the few times Mycroft wiped Lestrade’s cheek to chase away a stray tear.

      “Well, that’s done.  I’ll just dispose of this and Arthur will help and we’ll be back, oh… sometime later.  Come on, Arthur.  You can carry this… roll of clean gauze.”

Arthur was proud of himself that he understood what was going on and followed after John without asking questions, pausing only to give Lestrade a fingertip hug before leaving.  Mycroft stayed silent for awhile, letting Lestrade compose himself as best as possible before pulling close a chair and changing from stroking Lestrade’s arm to running his fingers through his Detective Inspector’s hair.

      “Talk to me, Gregory.”

      “Nothing to talk about.”

      “I believe there is.”

      “Fine.  You were right.  As always.”

      “That is not the issue and you are well aware of the fact.”

      “Then I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      “You claim not to be a child, yet you are doing an excellent good job of acting like a very young member of that particular species.”

      “Am not.”

Mycroft simply waited, letting Lestrade breathe through his thoughts.

      “I’ll never work again.”

Mycroft was torn between speaking honestly and buffering his words for comfort.  The battle lasted only a moment, though, because he knew Lestrade would not appreciate the gentle lie.

      “Perhaps not.  John has assured me that a return to work is not beyond the range of possibility, however, it will not occur quickly nor without great effort.”

      “And even then I still might not get back on the job.”

      “On _that_ job.  However, there are a myriad of others for which you will be highly qualified.  Positions of service that would still provide you with a great measure of satisfaction.”

      “Let me guess, you’ll hook me up.”

      “If that was what you wanted.  Elsewise, I would leave you to secure a position through your own avenues.”

      “You are lying so hard if you drop it the floor’s getting a dent.”

      “No… not entirely.  I _would_ assist you finding open positions that may not be publicized through more well-known channels.  If asked, I would supply you with a glowing reference of character and evaluation of performance.  I will not, however, create a position for you nor direct for any position that you be employed.  I would not undermine you in that manner, Gregory.”

At least not in any fashion that the Detective Inspector would ever learn.  Of course he would ensure his Gregory secured a respectable, well-paying position.  One that offered him responsibility, challenge and the desire to ‘make a difference,’ which was absolutely crucial for the man’s well-being.  However, any considerations along those lines were premature.  It was still entirely possible that a return to work could be accomplished and Mycroft had taken clear and non-negotiable steps to ensure that Lestrade’s current position was being held open for exactly that eventuality.

      “Really?  That’s… that’s good.  Thank you for that.  I don’t want to do anything else, but if I have to… if I have to, then I want to earn it myself.”

      “Of course.  I would have it no other way.”

      “Bet you’d want _me_ some other way, though.”

The words hit Mycroft like a slap, but there was no malice in his Gregory’s eyes, only a deep sadness that threatened to pull Mycroft in to drown.

      “You would lose that wager, Gregory.  Lose it cruelly.”

      “Frankenstein’s monster… that’s what I look like.”

      “No, you resemble a courageous man who suffered a terrible insult to his person and battled fiercely against overwhelming odds against his life to emerge victorious.”

      “Bastard.  You know what I mean.  Not going to be a lot of fun running your hands over _those_ scars.  Have to see that… not quite the same as what you saw when I paraded around in a towel after fixing your car.  And that was old and tired enough…”

      “ _That_ was breathtaking, my dear.  And you know well the damage you inflicted on my libido that day.  You have no idea what I see when I see you and I am somewhat pleased by the fact for I feel certain I would be terribly embarrassed by the silly, romantic nature of my imagination.  A few marks are not going to change that, Gregory.  It is simply not possible.”

      “A few marks?  It looks like someone butchered me!”

      “It appears as if someone valiantly tried to save you and succeeded, though the situation was exceedingly grim.”

      “I’m not insulting the doctors, don’t get me wrong… they did what they had to but, look at me, Mycroft!  Scarred up, old…  that’s what’s waiting for you.  Scarred up, old, slow and weak… I don’t want that for you, Mycroft.  I don’t.”

      “That is quite interesting since what I _want_ is precisely what I _have_ , even if he himself is not in a position to see that at the moment.  You are bruised, heavily provided with sutures, your wounds are quite fresh and vivid… you are seeing the worst, Gregory.  But every day you will heal and your wounds will fade.  They will never be erased and, for that, I am supremely thankful.  They are testament to your strength and I can never, not for a moment, look at your scars and feel anything but pride.  And it is a very well-established fact that scars are considered sexually appealing for many individuals.  I find that I can count myself in their number.”

      “You are not serious.”

      “I am _very_ serious.  Your body will not be as demonstrative of your injuries as you believe, but what will remain shall be quite pleasant, I am sure.  And why would I not wish to run my fingers across the extra decorations you shall sport?  Indulge myself in the contrasting textures and forms…”

      “You’re trying to cheer me up.”

      “And I appear to be succeeding.”

It wasn’t much of a smile, but it was more than his Gregory had been wearing and Mycroft breathed a small, internal sigh of relief.  John had warned him and this was only the first in what would be many emotional crises that would erupt as his Gregory recovered.  Not all would be so easy to smooth away, but the small success he had met today gave Mycroft increased confidence that he would somehow manage the larger ones he would meet in the future.

      “Maybe a little.”

      “That is all I would ask for.”

      “ _All_?”

      “I shall not pursue that particular line of discussion with you right now, my dear, so kindly stow away that rather seductive leer.”

      “Later?”

      “I shall confer with John.”

      “It’ll give him a heart attack.”

      “Perhaps a mild case of indigestion, at best.”

      “Doubtful… I’m sure Arthur’s home cooking has made him immune.”

      “Ah.  Well thought out.  A small rash, then.”

      “He can handle that.  Consult away and make sure you bring back some of that nice hospital lube.”

      “Really, Gregory?  As if I do not already have a supply in waiting.”


	46. The Shift Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks might have noticed I'm looking at ending this in about 2 chapters. But "ending" doesn't necessarily mean "The End." Expect the next installment of this series to pick up pretty much right where this one left off and go on from there tying up loose ends, adding new things and, of course, WEDDING! I'm hopeful that all the wonderful people I have following this tale so far jump in this new car for the next portion of the trip... I've loved having you along for the ride...

_“Not on the list.”_

_“Nope, not that either.”_

_“One jar of jam, not seven.  And what’s that green one?  No, don’t want to know, just put it back.”_

_“You want John to kill you, put that down.  And I’m not going through another fish sauce incident ever again.”_

_“Really, Sherlock?  And just who among us needs feminine hygiene spray?”_

Martin had no idea how his cousin hadn’t either been murdered by his partner nor banned from every shop in London.  It was worse than shopping with a four-year old!

      “Your slavish devotion to a scrap of paper appointed with a few cryptic scribbles is most disturbing, Martin.  I believe you could be swayed towards enlisting in the navy if the direction was scratched in blue pen on a pale yellow piece of lined paper.”

      “Don’t forget the kittens with wings there in the background.”

      “I _was_ trying to.  Thank you for bringing it again to my attention so my brain continues to blister.”

      “Look Mr. Dripping with Money… see all of these things here?  Each one has to be traded for with cash so we can take it out of the shop.  The bucket of cash will only trade for… well, one bucket-full-of-cash worth of goods.  You keep tossing stuff in the trolley and we’re going to need a bigger bucket.”

      “I need Arthur to translate your babbling.”

      “People have to follow their list, Sherlock!  Otherwise they spend too much and later on they can’t have petrol or pay for electricity!”

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort and felt a sharp sting in his head as realizing the root of Martin’s small outburst hit him directly in the frontal lobe.  However, this was not an issue that he would pursue in depth with this cousin at this time.  Not without John present for guidance.

      “I will agree that your argument is valid, however, our bucket is rather sizeable, therefore, petrol and utilities bills will not be impacted.  I would, therefore, appreciate a moratorium on complaints for every item I append to your vaunted list.”

      “If I let you go off the list you’ll have the trolley filled to the brim with blocks of lard, latex gloves, drain cleaner and marshmallows!”

      “I have absolutely no use for marshmallows!”

      “List!”

      “Boring!”

      “Boys?  Is everything alright?”

Sherlock and Martin whirled and tried to give the very small and very old woman next to them as reassuring a smile as they could muster.  Which was fairly pathetic.

      “Yes, ma’am.  Sorry if we got a bit loud.”

      “Not that it is any of your business.”

      “Shut up, Sherlock!”

      “Busybodying may be a typical trait of the aged, however, that does not mean it should be encouraged as a matter of course.”

      “Oh, he is a testy one, isn’t he?”

      “ _Testy_?”

      “Hush, you.  Yes, ma’am.  He’s a little under the weather, you understand how it is.”

      “Oh, I do.  My husband, god bless him, became ever so testy when he came down with something.  Plenty of tea, that’s the thing for it.”

      “Right here on the list.  Tea.  And there’s milk, just beneath it.”

      “Good.  You’re a good lad to take care of your partner that way.  Or is it husband?  I don’t see any rings, but you can’t tell these days.”

Martin was sure he had swallowed his tongue and it was an almost certainty that Sherlock eyeballs were going to kill someone when they popped out of his head.  And he still had a tongue that worked.

      “Did you not notice the resemblance between the two of us or has cataracts dulled your vision to the point where you are unsure if you are actually speaking to a man or a cardboard cutout of a gigantic fish.”

      “Of course I noticed… and it’s perfectly normal for couples to start to look alike when they’ve been together for a long time.  Good for you!  Put reading glasses on my husband and he could have been my twin!”

      “Uh… thank you, ma’am.  That’s very kind.  I’m sure… I’m sure your husband was quite attractive in glasses, so… Sherlock!  Lots to do, we should be going and letting the nice woman get about her shopping.”

Martin pushed Sherlock forward and into the next aisle as quickly as possible, favoring the still-smiling woman with his best ‘please forgive me, but yes, I’m always this awkward,’ grin.

      “This is why John should always do the shopping.”

      “This is why you should just stick to the list and not be a prat.”

      “Oh, not this again.”

      “What is in your hand?  Is that… lighter fluid?”

      “Why ask if you can see it?”

      “Oh god… and we’ve only halfway done…”

__________

Mycroft was very glad that Lestrade’s mood had lightened by the time that Arthur and John returned, because he would not have wanted Gregory to suffer the strain of maintaining a smile while trying to hide his heavy heart.  And he would have tried so very hard, too… it was simply his way.  And that would be another challenge to face in future days.  He would have to remain vigilant against any sign of his dear Detective Inspector attempting to hide his feelings and worries, before they became too oppressive and wore on his Gregory’s health.

      “Greg!   You look much happier, which is simply brilliant!  Mycroft really is a good cheerer-upper, isn’t he?  It makes sense, though, since he’s good at everything he would have to be good at this, too.  Do you need anything else, though?  You’ll tell me, right, if you need anything?”

Lestrade lightly swatted Mycroft who was still looking a bit smug at his praise, and shook his head slightly at John who frowned when he saw Lestrade wince with the contact with Mycroft’s leg.

      “I will Arthur.  Actually, know what I could use?  Socks.  Better than those flimsy things they’ve got on my toes right now.  Can you help me out?”

Arthur looked like someone had lit his fuse and he was priming to explode.

      “Socks…. oh, this is perfect!  I got several pairs when I went shopping and… hold on.  Don’t go anywhere.  Not that you could, but don’t think about it anyway.”

Arthur dove into the bags he had brought back from his shopping trip and pulled out a pair of heavy purple socks patterned with large, colorful butterflies and set about putting them on the Detective Inspector’s feet.

      “There!  Now you have warm feet that will feel all light and fluttery.”

      “Good lad.  Always wanted fluttery feet and now I’ve got them.”

      “Brilliant!  And… Skip!  What happened to your face?”

Arthur ran over to the newly arrived Martin and began examining the bruise that was forming on his cheek.

      “Martin is now, apparently, my husband and, further, is incapable of behaving appropriately in public.   Notice, however, that I am not marred in any way.”

      “Skip?”

      “It’s not fair!  I just asked the woman when her baby was due and…”

John and Lestrade both sucked in a pained breath and shared sympathetic looks between each other and with Martin.  It was not surprising that Mycroft and Arthur only shared confusion.

      “Oh, Martin… you’re really not up on the rules of talking to women, are you?”

      “Thank you, John.  I think that’s rather apparent.”

      “Gregory, would you…”

      “Later, Mycroft.  No use making the lad feel any worse than he already is.”

      “Oh dear, I’ll get you some of Greg’s ice.  I think this might be something we need to talk about too.  Wait!  Just wait one teeny minute though… Skip, did Mr. Sherlock say…”

      “We didn’t get married, Arthur.  It’s… another long story.  I am NEVER going shopping with him again!”

      “It is not my fault that your social awkwardness promotes a highly diverse series of consequences.”

      “We could have been out of there in ten minutes if I wasn’t having to put back everything you grabbed off the shelves.  Like shopping with a baby!”

      “Babies have no need for steel wool.”

      “Never!  He’s yours John, you shop with him.”

      “Dunno about that.  It’s kind of nice having someone to share my pain.”

      “N.E.V.E.R!”

      “Skip, come sit down with me and we’ll ice your face and I’ll tell you a story to make you feel better.”

      “Goodbye, my _dear husband_.  Arthur will take good care of you.”

      “Sod off you bastard!”

John couldn’t wait to hear the full shopping trip adventure tale, but it was enough for now that Sherlock was smiling, Martin wasn’t a mass of seething anger and anxiety and the only blows landed seemed to come from a third party.  All in all, he’d call the trip a success.

      “I am gladdened that you were able to interact with Martin in a somewhat companionable way, _dear brother_.  There is hope for you yet.”

      “What say, John?  Me and you hit the pub and let these two handle the shopping from now on.  Did wonders for Martin and Sherlock to get a bit of time together.”

      “If you want a world war to break out over eggs and jam, then I’m all for it.”

      “Love, you likely to declare war over eggs and jam?”

Mycroft held few certainties in life, but one of them was that he would never tire of hearing an endearment from the man currently tapping his hand with his little finger.

      “That would rather depend on the type of jam, I do believe.”

      “Mycroft has not set foot in any shop purveying foodstuffs beyond cake since he was… I was going to say a child, but that did not occur either.”

      “Well then, that’s one thing Mycroft and I will get to do together.  Go for groceries in crap clothes and crappier hair, unshaved and wearing mismatched socks.  Just like I already do by myself every day off.”

      “I shall send a representative in my place.”

      “You are absolutely no fun.”

      “If it makes you feel better, Gregory, I shall sit and direct the putting away of your purchases so as to make it a shared experience.”

      “Help me, John!”

      “Wrangle you own Holmes.  I’ve got enough on my hands what with trying to make it home with at least some of the things on the list when I take Sherlock shopping with me.  Which reminds me, did you two at least bring back something useful or edible?”

      “Martin’s rather obsessive need to follow written directions ensured that your items were procured.”

      “And what else happened to be procured?”

      “Nothing of importance.”

      “Sherlock…”

      “I noticed a certain toxic weed growing in several locations in the area and may have added some supplies to help extract the active chemicals within the plant for further study.”

      “Oh good, cooking up poison.  Perfect holiday activity.  Just make sure to hide the weeds from Arthur so we don’t wind up eating them for dinner.”

      “Boiling would deactivate the compounds in question and it is likely that our plated weeds would be quite well-boiled and, therefore, safe before serving.”

      “Well that’s ok then.  Hate to be in the bed next to Greg because my stomach lining’s been eroded by some witches brew of plant poison.”

      “More like your nervous system would shut down and you would expire with your stomach lining entirely intact.”

      “Talking to you is just one little happy fact after another.”

      “Happy facts?  I LOVE happy facts!  Can I have one, too?”

Arthur’s bright smile had each man in the room desperately trying to think of a happy fact to give him and kicking themselves for being bankrupt in the pleasant-truth department.  John’s courage was the first to peak.

      Uh… Sherlock said he found a lovely flower growing around and he’s going to try and grow some back in London?”

      “Really?  That’s BRILLIANT!  He can grow them and then pick them to make another bouquet for you.  That’s an incredibly nice thing to do, Mr. Sherlock, but you do do nice things sometimes, so I’m not really surprised.  Make sure to take lots of pictures so I can watch the flowers grow and then Doctor Watson’s face when he gets his big bouquet.”

      “I promise you that I will take numerous photographs the moment I begin my career as a horticulturist.” 

      “Hurray!  Oh, let me put this flannel down, it’s getting a bit drippy.”

      “Martin!  How’s your face?”

      “I am ignoring anyone who asks about my face or mentions women of certain proportions.  Try again later, John, when you’re not being cute.”

      “Guess we’re no longer speaking, because I’m always cute.  Arthur, tell your fiancé I’m always cute.”

      “He is, Skip!  Doctor Watson is like a sweet little puppy with a cute little smile and cute little eyes and a cute little tail, not that he has a tail, but if he did have a tail it would be one of those stubby little ones that wags all the time and shakes his whole bum when it does.”

      “That was great Arthur, thanks.”

      “Oh, anytime.”

No one had noticed that Mycroft had taken a seat by Lestrade’s bed and was resting his hand over Lestrade’s own.  The two men shared a look that the other knew well.  This was their life now.  Sitting back and watching the scrapping and laughing and the pleasure that was being taken from simply being together in the same place at the same time.  They’d gone through much, individually and collectively, but come through intact and grown stronger because of it.  And it was only the beginning…

__________

Once Sherlock and Martin had cooled down from their shopping adventure, Arthur and Martin curled upon the little sofa to watch the film that Mycroft had started, after extracting a promise from Lestrade that he would let himself fall asleep when he grew tired and not force himself to stay awake like a child at an overnight party.  With everyone comfortably settled, John nodded Sherlock into the hall, ignoring the smirk he got from Lestrade because the Detective Inspector’s filthy mind did _not_ need any further encouragement.  But, he did wait to start his conversation with Sherlock until he’d gotten a long kiss from his never-to-go-shopping-again partner.

      “Tell me the truth, Sherlock… everything go ok with you and Martin today?”

      “Did you believe it wouldn’t?”

      “I’m not thinking you did anything wrong, Sherlock.  Don’t think I am.  I’m more concerned about what Martin might have done.  He’s gone through a lot lately and his emotions are running high…”

      “Martin did not do anything untoward, besides his normal ability to draw misfortune to himself with the ease of a Toblerone drawing in a hungry Arthur.”

      “Ok… good.  That’s actually really good.  He’s been handling you being here a lot better than I would have expected and I’d hoped he just hadn’t gotten better at hiding things.  That would have been a very large problem…”

      “He would not have been able to hide anything from myself or Mycroft and we would have made mention if something was amiss.”

      “I never thought of that.  That’s good to know, honestly, and that’ll leave a little more of my notice to send over to Greg for the time being.”

      “Why are you concerned about Lestrade?  It appears he is making admirable progress.”

      “He is.  No question, he really is.  Much better than anyone could have predicted.”

      “Then why are you worried?”

      “He had a bad turn today.  Completely understandable, but I’d hoped to push it back until later to save him the stress.  And, of course, your brother and Arthur insisted on being there, which made matters… I don’t know.  Better, worse… at least I’d say it added to the stress on Greg and that has to be avoided at all costs if he is going to continue to make progress.”    

      “What happened?”

      “He got his first look at the gunshot damage and the extra damage from the surgery.”

      “And he reacted poorly.”

      “Anyone would!  It’s terrible, Sherlock.  Normally, I would have waited longer so things had time to heal a bit more and didn’t look so… look so much like he’d lost a knife fight and took two bullets as a penalty.”

John noticed Sherlock’s small wince at the term ‘knife’ and filed it away for a later conversation.  Something happened in London and one day he’d get the story.  One day when Sherlock was finally ready to tell it.

      “And you were not alone with him to say comforting things and perform your ‘bedside manner’ to its fullest extent.”

      “Pretty much.  I mean, it’s good that he’s got support, but it was just a lot for him to have an audience for that.”

      “But will he not have an audience for the duration of his recovery?  There will be swarms of attendants to see to his needs and therapies.  I doubt that any aspect of his recuperation will be without multiple witnesses.”

      “True, but he should be eased into that.  Just like coming off the pain meds, it’s something that should happen gradually.”

      “I would say he is feeing little pain at the present time.”

      “Also true and that’s been another battle between Friend John and Doctor John.  Friend John has been winning, too.  I just… I’d rather not have him uncomfortable when we go to move him to London and get him settled at Mycroft’s.”

      “And you don’t want to see your friend suffer what will be an unpleasant amount of pain.”

      “Yeah.  I mean… I’ve seen it more times than I can count, but when it’s someone you know, it’s different.  No amount of professional detachment changes that.”

      “Will he experience adverse effects if you maintain a higher dosage of his pain medication?”

      “Not immediately, but eventually, yes.  And right now, there could be a problem that we don’t know about because he’s not feeling it and can’t tell us.  It’s not an optimal situation.”

      “Then we move him to London immediately.”

      “I don’t know… he’s doing remarkably well, but that doesn’t change the fact that he just took one step back from the cliff’s edge and is still heavily beat up.  Will be for a long time.”

      “If Lestrade could rise above a lethal injury, I doubt a trip to London by air is going to significantly impact his health.”

      “Maybe you’re right.  I’ll… let me look over his chart again, run a few tests… give him another physical once-over… how quickly can Mycroft get… ok, not even going to finish that thought.  Let me think about it.”

Sherlock studied his partner and it slowly dawned on him what was in store for John, who would be Lestrade’s personal physician during the coming months.  He would have to contend with a Mycroft whose normal meddlesome tendencies would only explode in intensity once Lestrade was in Mycroft’s home with his brother’s protective and possessive instincts on full alert for any hint of threat to the Detective Inspector.  And John would have to oversee _all_ aspects of Lestrade’s care, every procedure or treatment and every member of Lestrade’s recovery team, if only to keep them from finding their lives terminated by an irate Mycroft Holmes who found a hair out of place on his… Lestrade’s head.  It was not going to be easy and John would need support to maintain his own well-being.  Support that he was not at all certain he was qualified to deliver.  Not that he wouldn’t try, but effort and success were not necessarily correlated.  However, if his pompous brother could seek advice on personal matters, he supposed that he could consider a similar course of action.  And it wasn’t as if Arthur disliked talking…

      “I have full confidence that you will make the most medically sound decision.”

      “Thank you, Sherlock.”

      “Sarcasm?”

      “No, honest, heartfelt thanks.  That was a nice thing to say.”

John absolutely adored they shyly-pleased Sherlock that very rarely peeked out from behind the prince with his ass on the throne of annoyance.

      “If no further sentiment is required, we should return to share Arthur’s choice of film with the others before our absence causes consternation.”

      “They think we’re snogging out here, so no worries.”

      “Then we should not disappoint.”

      “That would be disrespectful of us.”

      “Just one question.”

      “Ok, go for it.”

      “ ‘Ghostbusters’ is some form of metaphor, correct?”

      “Oh Sherlock, I think you’ve got quite the surprise waiting for you.”

      “I am suddenly not happy.”

      “Don’t worry, I’ll fix that.”

__________

Mycroft paid little attention to supernatural antics playing out in front of him and more attention to the individuals in the room.  His Detective Inspector was, despite his promise, refusing to succumb to his fatigue and keeping awake for their film experience, Martin and Arthur were so blissfully happy in their newly-engaged state that Mycroft could not help but smile and Sherlock was at least being considerate and not deriding every single action that took place in their film.  John, however… John appeared troubled and that concerned Mycroft greatly as there was a substantial possibility that the source of John’s perturbation was his Gregory and that demanded investigation.  At the film’s conclusion, Mycroft quickly called up another offering, much to Arthur’s delight, and voiced a desire for tea, tapping John on the shoulder as he rose to leave.  Fortunately, the good doctor understood the summons and followed along, also claiming the need for a bracing cup of tea to make it through another cinematic masterpiece.

 John followed Mycroft down to the hospital cafeteria and secured two cups of tea before walking over to the table Mycroft had commandeered for their conversation.

      “Ok, I’m here.  What’s on your mind?”

      “Actually, John, that was the question I had hoped to pose to you.”

      “Me?”

      “Please do not pretend ignorance, when your distraction is quite obvious.”

      “Fair enough.  I was talking with Sherlock and he got me thinking…”

      “About Gregory?”

      “Yeah.  Look, it’s like this.  Greg needs to start being weaned further off his pain meds, but I don’t want to do that if we just turn around and put him through the stress of relocation.”

      “Ah.  So you are considering moving him with some alacrity back to London.”

      “Considering it, yes.  Sure about it, no.  He’s still very weak, despite his attempts to make us think otherwise.  He’s barely started to heal and any wrong move can start something ugly happening inside.  Transporting him right now could be a disastrous idea.”

      “Yet you are considering doing just that.”

      “I am.  For all that could go wrong, it could also be that nothing happens.  We send him to London and he makes the trip fine.”

Mycroft leaned back and thought a moment, reading the clues on John’s face for the information they provided.

      “Overall, would you judge the environment in London to be a better one for Gregory at this juncture?”

      “On balance, I… yes, probably.  I mean, they’ve done a good job here, I don’t have any complaints about Greg’s care, but…”

      “You would feel more comfortable in familiar surroundings and believe he would, as well.”

      “Pretty much.  Greg’s not a hospital kind of person, even a hospital that’s been touched by Arthur’s magic wand.  I’d like to get him starting to feel more of his situation, sooner rather than later, and I’d prefer not begin that here.”

      “What do you require?”

      “Wherever he’s going to be living needs to be set up and ready when he gets there.  Right now, he’d need someone qualified to keep an eye on him when I’m not there and all the necessary monitoring and emergency equipment this place has.  Basic supplies and meds, too.  It’s best he’s in a standard hospital bed… so one of those.  I can make a list.  Personnel will probably be the highest priority, though.”

      “I have already started compiling dossiers on potential nursing staff and secondary physicians.  I shall make those available to you for review.”

      “Good.  I’ll get right on that.”

      “So you’ve decided?”

      “No.  But I’ll have to look through them at some point anyway, won’t I?”

      “John… I think this is a scenario where your instincts should be heeded.  What does your training tell you?”

The very tired doctor sipped his tea and wished Mycroft wasn’t completely correct.  This was why they said never to treat your friends or family… you just couldn’t trust yourself to make the best decisions in terms of the patient’s welfare.  But, if he pushed aside his emotions and concentrated on his medical instincts, the ones that felt the ebb and flow of Greg’s progress and read what they meant, he knew what the right choice was.

      “We move him.  I presume you can get things arranged quickly.”

      “ _Very_ quickly.”

      “Well, we don’t need it in an hour.  Let’s say day after tomorrow.  One more day of healing before we do this.  I presume we’ll fly him.”

      “Absolutely.  We do have an aircraft at our disposal.”

      “Not one of your secret black stealth helicopters?”

      “How gauche.  Gregory would certainly not approve.”

      “He would if he got to rappel down a rope onto a rooftop and play commando.”

      “I stand corrected.   And have an idea for his birthday gift.”

      “Oh, he’ll love you for that.  So, we’re doing this.”

      “I believe we are.  Are _you_ ready, John?”

      “Ready as I’ll ever be.  It’ll be a handful, Greg _and_ Sherlock to take care of.”

      “Though I shall leave Sherlock entirely to your capable hands, I shall, of course, be committing myself to personally tending to Gregory’s welfare in whatever manner I am capable.”

      “I will be taking you up on that.”

      “I expect no less.”

__________

Mycroft and John reentered Lestrade’s hospital room and settled back with their respective partners.  Lestrade shot Mycroft a quizzical look and Sherlock threw John a knowing one.  The next look was shared between John and Mycroft and prompted Mycroft to clear his throat and make his announcement.

      “John and I were having a little chat and, based on Gregory’s laudable progress, John believes that the time has come to move ourselves back to London for the remainder of Gregory’s care.”

      “What?  No!  I mean… Hurray!  But…. no….you’re already leaving?”

      “Arthur, my boy, it is not so dire as it may seem.  Firstly, we shall not be departing until the day after tomorrow, so there is still time for visitation opportunities.  Secondly, Martin shall be flying us to London, and I assume he will have no objection to you returning to your role as cabin steward for the trip.”

      “Really?  Brilliant!  I get to go back to London!  And fly on GERTI and you’ll get to see me do my job and… ok, I’m feeling better about this now.”

      “I’m not sure I am.”

Ten eyes swiveled towards the hospital bed and Mycroft took up Lestrade’s hand and gave it a small squeeze.

      “Reservations, my dear?”

      “Fears, actually.  I can barely move anything and I’m not so stupid as to believe that my plumbing’s been completely patched up on the inside.”

      “All true, however, John believes you are physically able to be returned home to continue your recovery and I see no reason to doubt his judgment.  However, if you are adamant against the idea, we will no longer consider the option.  It is as simple as that.”

      “I didn’t say I was adamant about anything… I just said I wasn’t sure.”

      “Of course, and that is perfectly understandable.  Regardless, time spent preparing your room and putting in place the necessities of your care is certainly not time wasted, so I shall put those measures in place while you reflect on your situation and how you would like to proceed.”

      “John?  You really think this is a good idea?”

      “I do and I’m not saying that lightly, mate.  I think you’ll move forward faster once we get you into your permanent recovery setting and start to push your body a bit more.  But a little more time here isn’t going to be the end of the world.”

      “Sherlock?  Is he lying?”

      “Not so I am able to discern.  I would say he is voicing his true opinion and you should consider his words seriously.”

      “Ok… I’ve got three votes.  Martin?  Arthur?  Want to chime in here?”

      “I’ll have to take John’s side because he’s my doctor and if I don’t he’ll probably slip me a laxative or something and put a lock on the loo door.”

      “I think you should listen to Doctor Watson because he’s… well, he’s a doctor!  And a soldier and a detective’s assistant, a full-time one, not a part-time one like me.  So, with three jobs he has to know what he’s talking about.  Plus, he’s your friend and Doctor Watson would never suggest anything that would hurt a friend.  It’ll be sad not having you here forever, but you weren’t going to be here forever anyway, but I didn’t actually want to think about that so I didn’t but now I have to and oh… it’s a very sad thing to think about, but it also means you’ll get well quicker and if get well quicker you can come back and visit quicker and we can do fun things faster, not that we can’t do fun things while you’re sick because… well, we already are!  And we can just do the things we normally do when you’re in London and Skip and I are here and… you’re going to make sure of that, right Mycroft?  Make sure Greg and I can have radio breakfast and send each other pictures and watch films to keep him company and all of the things like that?”

      “Gregory will have every method of access available to share virtual visits with you, Arthur.  You have my word on that.”

      “Then I vote yes.  Greg needs to go back to London and Skip and I will go, too, to make sure he’s all tucked in and then it’ll be just like we used to have, which was brilliant.  And when he’s completely and totally well… WEDDING!”

Arthur threw his hands up in the air and waved them around so joyfully that even Lestrade had to laugh.  And that enthusiasm and confidence blew away the worries that had put their claws into the Detective Inspector’s flesh.

      “Well then, that’s five votes yes, so I might as well make it unanimous.  So, day after tomorrow?”

      “John felt that was prudent.  If you desire more time…”

      “No.  If John says it’s good, then it’s good.  Yeah… it’s good.  So, another film?”

      “Hurray!”

      “You require rest, my dear.”      

      “I’ll rest when I’m dead.  And that’s a long ways off.  So, hit it.  And make it funny.”

      “Anything for you, my dear.  Anything for you.”


	47. Stones and Cracks Line Many Paths, But They Don't Stop the Traffic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adding one additional chapter to the total, because it's better that way...

After the second film, Mycroft declared the room to be off-limits to anyone but himself and Lestrade and even Arthur’s promise to pretend to be a mouse, sit in the corner and quietly nibble cheese did not alter his edict.

      “But, Mycroft…”

      “No.  I am sorry, but you are going to return to the house with the others.”

      “Greg…”

      “Oh no, you’re not going race around the corner to me when Mycroft’s said no.  I’m nipping that right in the bud.”

      “But, please… if you say yes, Mycroft will _never_ say no and…”

      “Nope, not gonna happen.  You’re not playing us one against the other and if you keep trying, you’re going over a knee.  Understand?”

      “Oh, fine.  But it’s not fair that I have to go home when I’m not even tired since I had a BIG nap and I’m not hungry since I had a BIG snack and… it’s just not fair.”

      “Arthur, fairness is not the issue at the moment.  The issue is Gregory’s rest.  He has been awake for most of the day and that is very taxing for him, especially with the relocation he is about to undergo.  Now, you do not wish for his health to suffer, do you?”

      “No, you know I don’t.”

Mycroft could not imagine any sad puppy in the world being as adorable as a sad and pouty Arthur Shappey.

      “Very well.  I also believe you have forgotten a matter of critical importance.”

      “I have?”

A quick tap on his wrist and Mycroft was rewarded by an excited squeak from across the room.

      “I have!  Oh, I need ALL of my supplies and I only have some here, so I DO have to go home and… I can come back, right?  As soon as I’m done?”

      “Of course.  Gregory will have had time to rest and you can show us your ideas.  I shall have a… person of interest… on standby for when you are ready to move forward with your design.”

      “Brilliant!  And don’t look at me like that, Skip.  I’m not going sew you a new uniform or anything.  I _did_ promise.”

      “Arthur, I _will_ worry any time you and Mycroft conspire on something.”

      “Silly Skipper, there’s never anything to worry about when Mycroft’s involved.”

Even Mycroft had to laugh at that and gave Arthur a little wave as the boy was escorted out by his fiancé, who shot his cousin an impressive ‘this had better not go sideways’ glare.  Sherlock and John hovered a moment longer as John gave Lestrade another quick look over and Sherlock tried to peek under the bandages to get his own view of the carnage.

      “Sod off, you ghoul.  You want to see, you can look at Arthur’s photos.”

      “Arthur took photographs?”

      “Expect them on his photo wall in an hour.  Probably with all sorts of little plasters put on there to make it like one of those voodoo dolls, but in reverse.”

      “I shall be analyzing them closely.  I have yet to truly observe the outcome of such an injury, besides death, and it would be interesting to see the extent of the mutilation.”

Lestrade shared a look with John that each knew all too well.  It could be as hard to say ‘no’ to Sherlock when he really wanted something as it was to Arthur.

      “Look, John will probably give me another check over before we go and you can take a look then.  But, no poking or taking tissue samples or anything.”

      “That is unduly restrictive.”

      “My body, so I get the final say.”

      “Very well.  John, I believe that Lestrade will require his bandages be changed tomorrow.  He will also require a blood draw and perhaps a urine test.”

      “What did I JUST say?”

      “You did not prohibit John from poking or taking samples.  If you cannot be precise in outlining your regulations, then do not be surprised when they are so easily circumvented.”

      “He does have you there, my dear.  One must avoid loophole at all costs.”

      “After I just stood by you with Arthur, you betray me to Sherlock.  For that, you can just go home with the rest of them.”

      “Don’t worry, mate.  _I’ll_ stand by you, even if the Posh Brothers band against us.  Sherlock, you’re not getting any samples of any form and Mycroft… just get bent.”

      “Shall I ever recover from the sting of that piercing retort?”

      “That’s Greg’s problem.  And no, I won’t be your doctor and patch up the hole.  Come on, Sherlock… let’s leave these two alone to battle it out.  I could use a little more sleep and I’m sure whatever Arthur’s up to, we’ll get dragged into it at some point, so might as well get that over and done with.  ‘Night Mycroft.  You too, Grumpy.”

      “Fuck off, you talentless cut-and-stitch hack.”

      “Looks like someone needs an enema.  Ordering one up as soon I hit the nurse’s station.  Bye!”

John and Lestrade exchanged rude gestures and big grins before John pulled a soon-to-try-peeking-again Sherlock out of the room.

      “I believe I shall never understand the typical male bonding rituals and I cannot muster much regret for the fact.”

      “Ah, a little banter never hurt anyone.  And you give it a good go when you want to.  I just have to hope he doesn’t go for the win and there’s a dour-looking nurse in here soon with a bag, a tube and a bucket.”

      “How utterly vile an image you paint.  However, if you _are_ subjected to such an indignity, I shall ensure that the good doctor’s next trip abroad is met with a body-cavity search.  Both on departure and return.”

      “I adore it when you abuse your power just for the likes of plain and simple me.”

      “Merely say the word and Sherlock will be enduring the same cold, gel-covered finger.”

      “I love you, Mycroft.  For so, so many reasons…”

Mycroft took up his familiar seat and lifted Lestrade’s hand for a kiss.  He looked at his Detective Inspector and swallowed down the rise of emotion that sprang up within him.  Soon, they would make a momentous move, both in location and in situation.  Here, they could speak fondly of starting a life together, but as long as Gregory remained in hospital, it was only a possibility.  But, the moment Lestrade passed through Mycroft’s door that possibility would be realized and turning back beyond that point would be devastating to them both.  As much as Mycroft wanted to put such thoughts out of his mind, he knew that he had to gain assurance that Lestrade remained committed to his decisions.

      “As I, you.  But… I do wish to be certain that I fully understand the entirety of our situation and that you…”

      “Me, what?”

      “Have no reservations.  I have asked a great deal of you, Gregory, in the short time that you have been sufficiently aware to respond, and not all of that time has been free from the haze of exhaustion or emotional chaos.  I would be more comfortable going forward with a clear idea of our goals.”

      “Spoken just like a bureaucrat.”

      “Just so.  In truth, my dear, I simply do not want to commit any further offense, hurt you in any manner through a misunderstanding.  I have a lifetime of sins for which to atone already, and cannot bear the thought of committing on you any additional atrocities.  I have not been good for you, Gregory.  That is a simple fact with which you cannot argue, but I would that it were different as we move forward.”

      “Mycroft…”

      “I find myself beginning to worry, now that we are soon to leave this artificial cocoon, that the treaties and agreements we have reached were made _because_ of the artificiality of this situation and the heightened emotions of your survival.”

      “You’re having doubts.”

      “No… not on my part.  I am very clear on what I want, but that has always been the case, regardless of my actions or their consequences.  Once you settled fully into my heart I have had but one, unwavering desire… to love you for my lifetime and enjoy your affection in return.  That has not brought you any happiness, however, and has instead gravely threatened your welfare and continued health.  I have not been harmed by your relationship, Gregory.  I have only benefitted.  Thrived, even.  Save for the pains brought on by my own deplorable behavior, I have suffered nothing.  I have only basked in your regard and thrilled in the feelings you awakened in me.  You had agreed to wait for me, not knowing fully to what you agreed, but that was before my actions, once again, brought about your destruction.  You dared to trust me one more time and had that trust shattered by events I set in motion, albeit unknowingly.  I have not a single doubt about my own wants… but I must know you have no doubts about yours.”

      “Of course I have doubts, I’m not completely stupid.”

Mycroft froze and hoped that his mouth was not hanging open in shock.

      “Mycroft… I have put myself on the line and gotten my head chopped off more times than I’m willing to think about.  I’ve trusted and gotten that trust ground underfoot.  You don’t think I haven’t considered the possibility it will happen again?  That all of this is just your guilt talking.  That you’re trying to buy redemption?  That when the worst has passed, so will all of this talk about love and devotion and I’ll find myself disemboweled again and tossed in the Thames?  Of course, I’ve thought about all of that and I can’t say for sure that what I’m thinking isn’t right.  But… I’m trusting that it’s not.  Of course, trust hasn’t been my best friend when it’s come to us, but I’m willing to give it one more try because I think that if this time I’m right to trust you then… this could be what I’ve been waiting for all my life.  I can’t say I don’t have doubts, Mycroft… that would be a tremendous lie.  It’s just that my hope is larger than my doubt, so I’m willing to give it another shot.”

Lestrade hoped Mycroft understood what he was saying, because he wasn’t sure, at times, that _he_ even understood it.  In reality, going back to Mycroft was insanity.  No matter how much he loved the man, Mycroft was right… it had never brought him anything good.  The little sparks of brightness only made the dark times look that much darker.  But he _had_ to believe it could be better.  Those few bright spots had been so very bright and now that Mycroft had finally come clean… why couldn’t he live in that light all the time?  Not that life with _anyone_ was always berries and cream, but things had to be different now.  Well, not _different_ , but real again.  Lestrade held fast to the belief that what he and Mycroft had was real and that there was nothing, nothing at all, between Mycroft and Edgar that was true.

      “Gregory?  You have gone quite reflective.  I would appreciate it greatly if you shared your thoughts.”

      “How much honesty do you want?”

      “Complete.”

      “Is that something I can expect from you?”

Mycroft drew in a deep breath and phrased his answer carefully.

      “For certain matters, yes.”

      “Wonderful.”

      “Actually, that is a proper word to use.  I cannot be honest with you about certain matters, in reference to matters of state, and I would prefer simply not to discuss such things with you at all, to avoid the dishonor of telling you an untruth.  However, for any matter concerning the two of us or our family, if you allow me the use of the phrase, you can expect my honesty.  It is too important to me not to be honest with you and… I know well the consequences of my dishonesty.  I do not offer that to anyone else and it does feel like a wonderful thing that I can so easily offer it to you.”

      “Ok… I guess that makes sense.  And it does sound like a good thing.”

      “Now, I believe it is your turn.”

      “Yeah, well… I was just thinking… about you and Edgar.  It’s in my head, Mycroft, and I don’t know if it will ever completely go away.  I know what you did with him and it hurts, I can’t say it doesn’t.  You had more of a relationship with him than you did with me, even if it was for show.  We’ve only been together once and that was quick and mostly built on anger and frustration, but you two… it’s rough to think about all of the time that you and he got to go at each other and how good he probably was.  I haven’t forgotten either, that you knew each other before… and, even then, had more than we’ve ever had, it seems.  Maybe if we’d had some time, then… then things wouldn’t seem so unbalanced, but it’s tough for me.  Knowing you were sleeping with him behind my back and would have gone on doing it if I hadn’t gotten shot.  Not easy picturing someone you care about in bed with someone else.   Having them be the important one when you’ve been rejected and thrown away.  Can’t say that won’t get in the way sometimes.  Not that you’ll ever take me to the hoity-toity places you went with him anyway because I wouldn’t fit in very well, would I… but someday we’ll run into someone and they’ll look at me and cock an eyebrow wondering why you’re not with him anymore and puttering around with me instead and…”

      “Enough.  You are working yourself into an unhealthy condition and I shall not allow that.  Relax a moment and allow me to address your concerns.”

Not that Mycroft wanted to touch any of them with tongs and lead-lined gloves.  For they were all quite, quite valid to his never-ending shame.

      “I cannot change the past, my dear, though I would in an instant if it were in my power to do so.  I _can_ tell you that my time with Edgar was not at all pleasant.  It brought me no joy, but yes… I did many things that neither of us will be able to forget.  I think about them, also, Gregory.  When I touch you, I feel often as if I am doing something wrong, because it is not right that I touch you after what I have done.  I did give him much and to you I gave so little, but what I gave you was by far the more valuable.  I gave you, oddly, honesty.  When I was with you, who I appeared to be is truly who I am.  What I felt was genuine and, in no manner, contrived.  No, I will not likely take you to the places to which I escorted Edgar, but it is because I abhorred them.  A few, perhaps, were not entirely gauche and pretentious, but the majority would appall you as surely as they did me.  I do believe I spent more on a meal at one of his horrid restaurant choices than I have in all of our time together combined… and felt every bit of my funds wasted.  But you have never cared about my money, have you?  In fact, I foresee many an argument erupting over what I choose to spend to treat you as I feel you deserve.  And, although it is possible, it is highly unlikely we shall cross paths with someone who was privy to my distasteful relationship with Edgar Peterson for the simple reason that I did not allow him to cross paths with anyone of my actual social circle, small that it is.  I do not believe for a moment that he ever noticed that ‘our’ friends were entirely his friends.  Introducing you to the few people I consider notable in my life is something with which I look forward to with great pleasure.  I do not doubt that there will be times where my past will rise up and create discord between us, my dear, but I am hopeful that we shall not allow that to defeat us.”

Mycroft found it difficult to actually reconcile his personal unwholesomeness with what his Gregory needed for their relationship to be successful, but he had to trust that his partner was able to do a better job of it than he could.  Gregory was _far_ more forgiving than he could ever be…

      “It _is_ going to cause trouble, I know it will.  But, ex’s always cause issues.  You’ll probably have to deal with mine at some point and… I know I still have things to work through from that disaster.  We’ll just have to take things one day at a time, just like every other couple.  So… did that answer _your_ questions?”

      “I believe it did.  Perhaps I am being overcautious, however, I refuse to place you in a position to your detriment ever again.”

      “That’s something I can definitely agree with.  Now… any chance I can convince you to go join the others and sleep in a real bed tonight?”

      “Is there a chance that I might convince you to set aside your desire to return to police work and engage in a safer and less-stressful career path?”

      “Oh, you’re one to talk.”

      “I am.  And I rather believe I do so gloriously.”

__________

      “Arthur…”

      “DON’T COME IN!”

      “Arthur, do you see the time?  I’m exhausted and my bed is with you in the locked room of secrecy.”

      “I’m sorry, Skip, but this is important.  You can sleep in Mycroft and Greg’s bed tonight.”

      “I’d have to boil my skin afterwards, so no.”

      “Skip… that’s rather a rude thing to say.”

      “I’ll survive.  Now, may I please come to bed?  I miss you.  I’d hoped we could have a cuddle before I went to sleep and we can’t have that if I’m out here and you’re in there.”

      “Oh!  Oh… that’s a problem.  I’d really, really like a cuddle, especially since we’re going to get married and I’m still feeling a bit whoosh about that, but I also really, really need to get this done and all my stuff’s in here, but… cuddles are so nice… but this is very important and it’s only one time that I need the room to myself, but… cuddles… no!  I can’t give in!  Here… hold on.”

Martin had listened to the giggles and arrgghs and yes! and no! for the past hour and had not one idea what Arthur was doing beyond the fact that he wasn’t allowed to know anything about it.  Beyond that, he was tired and wanted nothing more than to crawl between Mycroft-free sheets and hold his fiancé until he drifted off.  Apparently, this was not being presented as an option.

      “Ok… stand back from the door.”

      “Have you gone daft?”

      “No, but if you’re by the door you’ll get knocked because it opens outward.”

      “Oh… right.  Standing back.”

Arthur opened the door a crack and set a pile of blankets and a pillow on the ground, quickly shutting and locking the door when he was done.

      “What is this?”

      “Bedding.  Now you can sleep on the sofa or the floor or wherever you like, really.  And you’ll be warm and snuggly.  Oh!  I forgot… stand back one more time.”

Martin knew he’d been overcome by fatigue when he actually jumped back on Arthur’s command.  Once again the door was unlocked and a small stuffed rabbit was placed on top of the pile of blankets.  Shut, lock and Martin was still exiled from his bed.

      “Mr. Hoppity will make sure you sleep very well.  And I probably won’t be here when you wake up so I’m kissing the air right now since I can’t kiss you goodbye.  You can kiss the air too and our air kisses can mix themselves up and it will be like we’re kissing for real.”

      “Except your air is in there and mine is out here.”

      “Silly… air can move around where it wants to move.  Otherwise you couldn’t smell breakfast in the morning.”

      “I’m not winning this, am I?”

      “No, not this time, but only because this is very important.  I’ll let you win next time.”

      “Ok… I’ll be on the sofa.  All alone.”

      “Not true.  You have Mr. Hoppity.”

      “Yes, forgot about that.  And Arthur… while you’re in there, you should be thinking about when we’re going to tell your mother about the engagement.”

Martin hoped the crash he heard was _not_ Arthur fainting and hitting the floor.

      “I… I sort of forgot about that.”

      “We have to do it, you know.  And not with a phone call.”

      “No… that wouldn’t be good.  Oh, I think I have to sit for a moment.”

      “You do that and I’ll go keep Mr. Hoppity company on the couch.”

      “I’m going to talk to Mycroft and Greg about how to tell Mum.”

      “I think ‘Mum, Martin and I are getting married’ is perfectly fine.”

      “I don’t call you Martin, so that wouldn’t work.  Oh, but should I?  We _are_ getting married and I didn’t think about it but you call me Arthur and not Steward, but I don’t call you Martin and maybe once we’re husbands I should change that to be more like Mycroft and Greg and Doctor Watson and Mr. Sherlock.”

      “No… you will not be changing one thing.  Not for any reason.  I’m very happy being Skip and don’t want you calling me anything different.  Though, I do think you’ll have to call me Martin when we actually have our ceremony, but you can check that with Mycroft.  I bet he could fix it so you don’t have to, anyway.”

      “I will!  And thanks, Skip… I really prefer calling you Skip, and now you’re _my_ Skip and that sounds much better than _my_ Martin which has too many M’s and sounds a little mmm-y.”

      “Well, we can’t have that.  And I don’t suppose that earns me my bed by any chance, does it?”

      “Oh, you’re trying to be tricky… but it won’t work.  You’re not going to ruin my surprise.  So, goodnight my Skip!”

No use fighting a losing battle.  And Carolyn’s sofa was actually rather comfortable.

      “Goodnight, my Arthur.  I’ll see you later.”

__________

It had taken hours for Arthur to come up with a design that he absolutely loved and knew his Skip would love, also.  It took a moment to replace his crafts supplies and carefully package his model in a box with tissue paper, before he was ready to go.  One quick stop in the kitchen for some string and he used a piece to wrap around his Skip’s wrist, being very careful not to wake the sleeping ginger angel,  and marked the point of overlap so he had a measurement to go with his own to give to the jeweler.  And that reminded him, he probably should tell Mycroft he was on the way.

      “Ah, Arthur… I trust you have need of my services this fine morning.”

      “Hi Mycroft!  I’ve got my model made and my and Skip’s measurements and if you wanted to ask your jeweler to stop by so he can see what I made, that would be brilliant.”

Mycroft peeked at the clock and laughed at the earliness of the hour, but for the fee he was offering, his choice of jewelry maker would not hesitate to agree to meet Arthur at the hospital at any time of day.

      “I shall alert him immediately.  I assume you soon to arrive?”

      “I’m leaving just as soon as have some water, because I’m rather thirsty, but then I’ll be in my car.  And I need to stop for tea because it’s faster than making it myself and oh!  do you want tea?  I’ll get you some tea and maybe a very small cup for Greg because tea is almost like water and he’s allowed water, so he should be able to have tea, as well.  I’ll get pastries, also, but Greg can’t have any of those, so you’d better tell him now so he’s not disappointed when he smells the yummy pastries and I have to tell him that they’re all for you and me.”

      “I shall break the news gently, I assure so.  Goodbye, Arthur.  I shall see you shortly.”

      “Bye Mycroft!  Be there in a few minutes.”

Mycroft ended the call and was not at all surprised that Lestrade had woken.  The man did seem to respond strongly to the sound of his voice.

      “So, what’s the news?”

      “You shall not be having pastries.”

      “Why are you trying to torture me?”

      “Another matter you are free to take up with your private doctor at your earliest convenience.”

      “Oh, I’ll make him put me on the ok-for-pastries list, just you watch.  And coffee, too.  And a good bottle of lager!”

      “For breakfast?”

      “It’s got wheat things in it, just like bread.”

      “The day you begin to drink your breakfast from a bottle, is the day we have a little discussion about treatment programs.  I am quite well-versed in that area of expertise, as you well know.”

      “You are an oppressive bastard and I already feel henpecked.”

      “I am not female, so your analogy is insupportable.”

      “Fine.  Cock pecked.  Which doesn’t sound so bad, now that I say it.”

      “You are rather proud of that one, aren’t you?”

      “Oh yeah, could spin it into something really filthy if I put my mind to it.”

      “Let us remember that when you are physically prepared to perform any of the actions you craft with your extraordinarily vivid imagination.”

      “I’ll be waiting for that as long as I am for my pastries.”

      “Bullets are not very forgiving, Gregory, and do not hold sacred either breakfast treats or sexual escapades.”

      “Well, they should.  Especially since the two can be combined in some very interesting ways.”

      “I do have myself a handful with you, don’t I, my dear?”

      “Maybe two handfuls if you get me happy enough.”

Mycroft, once again, kicked himself as hard as he could in his mind because of how close he had come to losing this man and what they, so easily, had become to each other.

      “Behave yourself.  Arthur will be here soon and there will be much to do.  I need your mind clear and focused on our task.”

      “Which would be?”

      “Oh, I shall not spoil that surprise.”

      “I get very nervous when you’re sneaky.”

      “I shall endeavor to keep my level of sneak to a minimum.”

      “You do that.  And call John about my pastries!”

__________

Mycroft did place a call but it was certainly not to John, who was likely still sleeping, but rather to his jeweler-for-hire, who promised to be at the hospital in half an hour.  It was ten minutes after the call that Arthur burst into Lestrade’s hospital room holding a bright green box in his hands.

      “Hi, Mycroft!  Hi, Greg!  And you’re awake, which is brilliant!  You can see my model, too and tell me what you think.”

      “Model?  You got a woman in that box?”

      “What?  Ha!  It’s amazing that you can still be funny with holes in your body like that.  No… a model, like the ones Skip makes of planes.  Oh, and I can officially call him Skip even after we’re married.  We discussed that, but Skip said I might have to call him Martin at our wedding, which would be rather strange, but we decided that Mycroft could arrange it so I call him Skip, so things won’t be strange.  You can do that, can’t you, Mycroft?”

      “It is a minor matter.  Consider it done.”

      “Hurray!  Oh, and take a look… I think this is going to be perfect.  Brilliant, even!”

Arthur set down his box, along with the pastry bag and two cups of tea and carefully pulled out his model, which confused Lestrade and greatly amused Mycroft.

      “Arthur, did you make a crown for one of your dolls?”

      “No, though that is a super idea!  I’ve already made hats and scarves for a lot of them, but I never thought about crowns.  And I should have plenty of supplies left to get started… oh!  I almost got distracted by that wonderful idea and forgot to tell you that this is most certainly not a crown.  It is my engagement bracelet.  Well, mine and Skip’s, they’ll look alike, though his will be smaller because he has tiny wrists.”

      “Did he say engagement bracelet?”

      “Indeed he did.  What a marvelous solution for a couple that wishes to declare their engaged status in a bold and unique fashion.”

      “I’d say bold and unique are very good words…”

Lestrade looked again at Arthur’s model and, this time, couldn’t stop a smile from breaking out on his lips.

      “See, it’s making you smile!  That’s what it _should_ do.  Everyone who sees it should get a big smile because Skip and I are getting married and that’s the happiest thing in the world!  See, I put some stones on it, red for Skip’s hair and blue for the sky since we fly for our jobs.  And some clear ones… well, because I had a lot of them and they’re very sparkly.  Oh, and I like feathers, so I put some on around it so you can see the pretty pattern and… here, see right inside?  I wrote our names, Skip and Arthur, in a big heart.  I also drew some pictures around the sides… there’s GERTI, and I put on some animals and Skip’s van and I tried to draw a map on London, but that didn’t go too well, but a map of Fitton is rather blah, so I’m not sure what to put there.  But… there it is!  What do you think?”

Mycroft made a great show of carefully and intensely examining Arthur’s creation and making small sounds of great consideration and thought.

      “I believe it is the finest example of an engagement bracelet that has ever been designed.  I am terrifically proud of your efforts.  Gregory?  Do you concur?”

Mycroft held the bracelet closer to Lestrade so he could perform his own act of examination.

      “I wholeheartedly concur.  This is an amazing piece of work and when you and Martin are wearing these, everyone in the world is going to know you’re together.”

      “Yes!  Oh, thank you!  I was worried, actually, that I’d make a big mess of it and… well, I do know that what I think is brilliant isn’t always what everyone else thinks is brilliant and I wanted this to be the most brilliant thing since it’s for me and Skip and our getting married…”

Arthur and Mycroft turned at the small knock on the door and Mycroft waved in the well-dressed man waiting on the other side.

      “Ah, very good.  Arthur please show the gentleman your model and explain your design in detail.  He will be making the final version of your creation, so be quite thorough and ask any questions you might think necessary.”

      “Oh!  Hello!  I’m Arthur and I’ve got my model and I used string to measure Skip and my wrists, Skip’s going to be my husband, by the way and I made this to show you what I want, but if you can think of something to add or change I’d be happy to hear it because this has to be the most brilliant thing and I’m sure you can do brilliant since Mycroft found you and he doesn’t do anything if it’s not completely brilliant…”

Arthur dragged the highly confused man to the other side of the room so they could sit on the small sofa and discuss his design, leaving Mycroft and Lestrade chuckling in their wake.

      “That is the most staggering thing I’ve ever seen.”

      “It will garner attention, most certainly, but that _is_ the point.  And I trust that some of Arthur’s more colorful additions can be moderated in the construction process without changing the point of view of the piece.”

      “That guy’s good, right?”

      “I would inform you of his client list, but you do not yet have the proper security clearance for that information.  Fortunately, he had free day or two to tend to our little matter.”

      “Yeah, very fortunately.  You love that kid, don’t you?”

      “I despaired of ever loving anyone in my life besides Sherlock and now… it is rather unusual that the greater the number of individuals one grows to care for, the _more_ one seems able to care for those individuals.”

      “That’s a lot of words to say ‘yes.’ “

      “Brevity is not appropriate for a tribute to Arthur, would you agree?”

      “You got me on that.  I’ll take brevity, though.  Just three little words.”

      “Pastries smell delicious?”

      “I hate you.”

      “But I have pastries, so I shall weather your scorn nicely.”

__________

The jeweler left the hospital dazed, but giving his promise to Mycroft that Arthur’s design would be crafted quickly given the access Mycroft had provided to the necessary materials and equipment, though he blanched at Mycroft’s insistence that they be ready for an evening presentation.  Fortunately, Mycroft also had conscripted the efforts of various local artisans and craftsmen to assist with the project.

      “Really?  They’ll be ready tonight?”

      “I had thought that the best course of action.  If I am not mistaken, you have yet to inform your mother of your formal engagement and it would be a delightfully symbolic gesture to exchange your new pieces at that time.  If you wish, I shall secure reservations and you may treat your dear mother to dinner as part of your celebration.”

      “And you’ll come too?”

Mycroft actually stumbled on that question.  He had hoped to avoid any further face-to-face contact with the formidable Carolyn Knapp-Shappey.

      “He’d love to, Arthur.  And why not have Sherlock and John along, too.  It will be their last night in Fitton and what better way to spend it than celebrating your engagement?”

      “That would be brilliant!  But… oh, but Greg… you can’t come with us.   No, that’s not a good idea, then…”

      “Stop right there, Arthur.  Just because I’m stuck here does not mean you’re allowed to avoid having a good time and getting all the attention you deserve for your big announcement.  You’ll take lots of pictures, right?  I’ll get to see those and it’ll be like I was there, after all.”

      “I suppose, but it’s really not the same.”

Mycroft put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze.

      “No, it will not be the same, but Gregory is correct.  He will be able to look through your photographs tomorrow and share your evening.  And I shall be here to keep him company…”

      “Over my dead body.”

      “Gregory!  You are forbidden from ever using that expression!”

Lestrade’s eyes widened at the harsh tone of Mycroft’s voice, but realized he should likely be careful with some of the things he said from now on… certain expressions were simply not going to be funny anymore.

      “Ok… calm down, love.  Just a turn of phrase… and your arse _is_ going to be warming a chair at that party.  Arthur and Martin deserve everyone there to celebrate and I’m not going to have you here being bored for another night when you could be having a nice time.  And, no… just close your mouth and nod ‘yes,’ because that’s the only answer I’m taking from you on this.”

Mycroft lifted one eyebrow and it was countered by one stuck-out tongue by his Detective Inspector.  But, John’s warnings were still fresh in Mycroft’s ears and he knew that if he held firm, Lestrade would be very angry and Arthur would be very disappointed.  Too much ‘very’ for such negative feelings.  Apparently, he was now attending a party.

      “Very well.  I shall make the arrangements and you, Arthur, may extend the invitations.  Couch your reasons in light of our imminent departure from Fitton to maintain the surprise.  Also, now that I consider the scenario, this might be the best situation in which to broach the subject of your return to London, though it be brief in duration.”

      “Brilliant!  And, you’re probably right.  Mum won’t be very happy that Skip and I are going to London again, but it won’t be for long.  Just until Greg’s all settled and I get to see your house again and maybe take another little sightseeing trip and then check on Greg and visit Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Watson in their flat.  So, not long at all!”

And Mycroft would be paying for the use of both members of the MJN crew and their aircraft for the duration.  He made a mental note to have a small holiday package prepared, in case Arthur’s mother required some additional incentive to give her approval.

      “Excellent.  Now, shall we have our pastries.  The tea has gone cold, I’m afraid, but…”

      “I’ll get more!  Just give me a second and I’ll get more tea and maybe a baby tea for Greg.  I’ll be right back.”

Arthur ran out of the room and Mycroft hoped that the hallway was empty while the boy barreled through on his quest for tea.

      “Are you certain you will be content to be alone this evening, Gregory?  I fear this event shall extend to a rather late hour.”

      “I’ll be fine.  Something I gotta get used to, anyway.  I know what you’re schedule’s like, Mycroft… well, when you’re not stuck next to a hospital bed.  You’re not always going to be around.  Neither am I, for that matter, though I don’t pop off to the other side of the world on a regular basis.   And I expect you to start right up with that when we’re back in London.  I do _not_ want to contemplate how close we are to global collapse right now with your fingers not as deep in the mix as usual.”

      “Not as close as you might suspect, I can accomplish quite a bit with a few precisely-worded texts and a terse phone conversation or two.  But yes… I will need to take up my duties more fully when I return.”

      “Good.  That’s what I want.  You doing what you do best and not putting that off because of me.”

Once again, Mycroft had to mentally thank John for preparing him for what to expect.

      “And that is what you will receive.  Within reason.  Do not expect me to devote my entire attention to my work, for you will be find your expectations soundly dashed.  I shall be there for you, my dear, and I do not mean solely in spirit.  I can, and often do, work from home, so we shall be able to share a great deal of time together as you heal.  This will also allow me to monitor your care and make modifications, as necessary.”

      “Mycroft, don’t have my nurse executed.”

      “I doubt it will come to that.  Perhaps a public shaming, but without the stoning or placing in the stocks.”

      “You’re sexy when you go medieval.”

      “Then I believe I shall prepare a list of books to read to you while you are incapacitated.  Lively historical tales…”

      “With lots of juicy gossip and stonings?”

      “That can be arranged.”

      “And you’ll do the voices?”

      “Now, I wonder which of your many buttons connects to a sedative drip.”

      “I’m feeling oppressed again.”

      “You shall have copious opportunities the turn the proverbial table, my dear.  And I shall give you as many reasons as possible to make good use of those opportunities.”    

      “Just one more reason to keep on living.”

      “And, do not forget to add alcohol and pastries to your list of survival motivation.”

      “Some things, love, a man can never forget.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tossed my hat into the AO3 fundraiser... check out my page and post a bid for this very good cause!
> 
> http://ao3auction.tumblr.com/eventhorizon


	48. Cause for Celebration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though we near the end of this tale, my gratitude to everyone for their support remains undiminished. Thank you all for your continued attention and encouragement...

      “That is not really my concern, is it?... Yes, I believe that would be acceptable… _That_ , however, would not.  This is for a special occasion and I hope that I have fully impressed upon you how _special_ I consider the occasion to be… Ten?  If you are trying to make a jest, I would encourage you to seek instruction on how to do it properly and at the correct moment… An, that is better… No, I do not think that would be excessive, you did _meet_ the dear boy… excellent, I shall expect them to be delivered this evening.”

Mycroft placed his mobile back in his pocket and was not all surprised that his partner was grinning up at him, having caught the thread of the conversation.

      “Let me guess, Arthur’s bangles.”

      “The very thing.”

      “Think Arthur and Martin will like them?”

      “That is always a matter fraught with uncertainty and large margins for error, however, I feel they will be satisfied.  Arthur, especially.”

      “So, your guy’s going big, huh?”

      “He is _now_ … imagine, believing that he could properly render Arthur’s vision for a paltry £10,000.”

      “WHAT!”

      “I am gratified you share my displeasure.  I do hope that at least some of the artists I contracted will have a broader and more creative approach to the design and its implementation.”

      “You do realize… no, no you don’t and I can’t say I’m not glad for it.  The boys are going to get something they can treasure forever.  And finance their retirement cottage, to boot.”

      “That initiative already has an investment portfolio set aside towards it realization.  Young Arthur’s governmental salary is being wisely used to guarantee for them a very comfortable old age.”

      “Governmental salary?”

      “He is a consultant.”

      “For your love life!”

      “A happy Holmes, is a productive Holmes.”

      “Really, I can’t muster any surprise for this.”

      “Good, very good.  Surprises are an unwise stress for someone in your condition.”

      “Not pregnant, thank you very much.”

      “And for that, I am quite grateful.  I shudder at the shortness of temper I would have to endure if you were great with child.  And the effort to satisfy what would be, I am quite certain, highly original cravings does not bear consideration.”

      “Wait just one minute… who says _I’m_ the one that’s going to be having the baby anyway?  What’s wrong with _you_?”

      “And ruin this figure?  Surely you jest.”

      “It’s for our kid!”

      “Who would never want to shoulder the guilt of my stretch marks.”

      “Wonderful.  Might as well knock me up now, since I’m already on bed rest.”

      “Very well, I shall discuss the matter with John.  And various members of the genetic engineering community.”

      “Hold on one minute.  If I find you’ve slipped some uterus-growing drug in my IV, I am going to pummel you.”

      “One negative aspect of bed rest, I’m afraid, is that pummeling becomes quite a difficult feat.”

      “I’m a lost cause.  Just go buy me one of those baggy dresses and lay in the nappy supply.”

      “I shall err on the side of caution and wait until we see the effects of your anatomical modifications.  I would hate to have the nursery built only for you to sprout horns and a tail.”

      “Good thing I don’t wear a hat, but I’ll need new trousers.”

Mycroft was rather startled to find himself speaking about tails and offspring when he _had_ been discussing Arthur’s engagement bracelets, but was also blissfully delighted that his Gregory could maneuver his mind in directions that Mycroft would never have thought to travel alone.

      “I shall alert the tailor.  That does, however, raise the issue of attire.  I assume you would prefer to be provided with your own garments, rather than receive a new wardrobe.”

      “Of course I want my own clothes!”

      “Very well, I shall have them moved.  Toiletries, also?”

      “Are you serious?  Of course… well, actually I guess that doesn’t matter much.  I’m not sure how much shampoo and stuff I have left anyway to justify having it moved.  I can just buy new or ask John to pick up some supplies next time he goes shopping.”

      “I shall have it attended to and inquire of John if there is a particular type of soap that you should be using owing to the nature of the bathing process you shall have to adopt for the time being.”

      “Oh god… don’t remind me.  Already I feel like one of those kids they find after they’ve grown up with the wolves.  All carved up _and_ greasy…”

A small warning tone sounded in Mycroft’s head and he was rather proud of that fact.  He was not an empathetic man, by nature, but for his Gregory, the instincts appeared to be developing at an accelerated rate.

      “Would you, perhaps, enjoy having that attended to?  It would be an easy thing, I suspect, to have your personal cleanliness, shall we say, refreshed, though I am not certain the actual degree to which it could be accomplished due the limitations to your mobility.”

      “You think they can?  That would be super if you could get this oily mess on my head washed and find me a bottle of mouthwash, at least to get rid of some of the algae that’s growing on my teeth.”

      “I shall see what may be done.  In the meantime, how do you suggest we spend our day?”

      “How about you get something done to save us all from the forces of evil?”

      “Since I have not received any notification that the forces of evil are massing to march across the border, I believe that my services are not required at this time.”

      “Lazy sod.  Go to work.”

      “I have already engaged in several conversations and scripted several missives this morning relevant to my affairs, though you saw fit to sleep through the evidence of my undertakings.  And I do have a brief meeting to attend this afternoon, but that shall not take very much of my time.”

      “Meeting?  One of those video meeting things?”

      “Certainly not.  Fitton is not so removed from London that I cannot have individuals physically present when I require them.”

      “I’d like to see that.  Sitting around the Knapp-Shappey house, stepping over Arthur’s toys and shoving aside the mess Sherlock’s probably already got covering the kitchen table…”

      “Precisely the reason I use the residence I acquired for our visit.”

      “You know, I’m glad we wound up staying at Arthur’s place.  Fighting with John and Sherlock wasn’t fun, but the rest of the time was pretty good.”

      “I must agree, which vexes me terribly.  Communal living is not an activity that I have ever amassed any desire to experience.”

      “You’re just happy we got put in the same room and you got a mild version of having your way with me.”

      “That is absolutely untrue.”

      “Oh, I must have woke up limb-caged by some _other_ handsome bloke.  My mistake.”

      “You radiate a large amount of heat and the night grew quite brisk.”

      “You’re an octopus, why don’t you just admit it?”

      “Admit to being a cephalopod?  I do believe you have been watching too many of those science fiction programs of which you and Arthur are so fond.”

      “Why don’t the both of you just start wearing matching jumpers and get a license.”

      “Mycroft, execute him.”

      “Gregory, I shall not execute the good doctor until he has signed your release to return to work.  After that, you may have his head on a spike in my courtyard.”

      “Works for me.  Sorry John, but you crossed a line with that jumper comment.”

      “That’s fine.  Take my head and then Sherlock has to come and live with you.  Better than having to haunt you myself.”

      “Mycroft, can you execute a man twice?”

      “I do not believe so, however, I shall make inquiries.  I do believe Arthur follows a program or two about the paranormal and can shed light on the topic.”

      “See that, you wanker?  Mine will even have your ghost taken care of!”

      “ _Mine_ will find out everything your randy and wastrel self has got buried from your twenties.”

      “Crap.”

      “Draw?”

      “Draw.”

      “Oh, but now I have a wealth of questions for you, my dear Gregory.”

      “It’s back on, John.”

      “If you can catch me, you can hit me.”

      “Mycroft, help me up.”

      “I believe that I shall, instead, take the opportunity to conduct a bit of the work you were chastising me earlier for setting aside.  John, do try and prevent him from gathering his strength to stage an offensive.  I would hate to return and find that all of your hard work had been undone by an abortive attempt to terminate your existence.”

      “Got a syringe full of something soothing around here somewhere, so I’ll be fine.”

Mycroft shared a quick look with John that stated definitively he knew John was starting the preparations for moving Lestrade back to London and that he would expect a status report upon his return.  One quick kiss was placed on the Detective Inspector’s forehead and Mycroft was pulling out his mobile and making his way out of the room.

      “He’s getting work done, huh?”

      “Not enough.  I’m not ignorant of how much he’s in demand and I’m sure it’s killing him not to be right there in the middle of things like he usually is.”

      “It’s not killing him.  Greg, you were shot, died and he loves you.  What in that doesn’t make sense as to why he’d rather be here right now than Whitehall?”

      “I don’t know, it just doesn’t.”

      “If it were me in that bed, you’d kick Sherlock right in the head if you found him at a crime scene and you know it.”

      “My only talent right now is hypocrisy, so don’t ruin it for me!”

      “And you can stop the act, too.  I’m not here right now as John, I’m here as Doctor Watson.”

      “What does that even mean?”

      “It means you’ve been pushing yourself too hard trying to convince everyone you’re chipper and ready for anything, despite a couple of setbacks, but I know better, Greg.  It’s ok to show what you’re really feeling, even the hard and ugly things.”

      “I’m fine, John.  See?  Nice big grin and… you need to find me some mouthwash or a toothbrush.  Feels like my teeth and tongue are carpeted.”

      “I’ll see what I can do, but I want you to listen to me seriously.  I’ve been watching you closely and most of what I’ve been seeing has been a massive act to make the rest feel less worried.  Less burdened.  You’re trying not to rain on Arthur and Martin’s parade, shift what you can of Mycroft’s guilt, keep Sherlock as balanced as possible… and you don’t have to.  It’s not your job to keep everyone else happy; it’s your job to do what it takes to heal.”

John ignored the accusatory eyes glaring at him and made a show of amending Lestrade’s chart.

      “That’s all bollocks.”

      “No it’s not, but you want it to be.”

      “What the hell do you know?  How in the hell can you stand there and tell me how I feel?”

John just pursed his lips and waited for the inevitable realization and only smiled when Lestrade’s mind put the pieces together.

      “Crap… sorry, John… I’d completely forgotten.”

      “It’s alright, I even do sometimes.  And it’s not something that anyone else but Sherlock tends to remember and, with him, I think it’s only because he gets to see the scar often enough that he can’t delete it from his silly Mind Palace.’

      “I can’t believe I completely forgot about you being shot.”

      “You’ve had a lot on your mind, mate.  But, that’s why I _do_ know what you’re feeling.  All the doubts and insecurities, all the worries, all the wishing that you could just go off somewhere by yourself and not have anyone else have to see you like this or spare you a second thought until you’re back on two feet.  I _know_ , Greg, and that’s why I’m telling you to take advantage of what you _do_ have that a lot of people don’t.  If I’d had Sherlock back then, things would have been worlds better.  Yeah, I’d still have had rough times, but at least I’d always know that there was someone there who _wanted_ me to recover.  Who had my back and was there for me when I needed them.  I do understand what you’re going through and what’s rattling around in that thick skull of yours, but you need to take a breath and concentrate on the really important thing – getting better.  And that’s not going to go as smoothly if you’re draining your batteries trying to play the cheeky boy with Mycroft and the rest.”

Lestrade broke off eye contact and simply stared at the ceiling, while John checked his IV and puttered around straightening the room, which was coming more and more to resemble Arthur’s bedroom.  The last thing John would do before they left for London would be to remove all the decorations from the walls and window, because he honestly believed that the cacophony of color was helping keep Lestrade’s spirits from plummeting too far downwards.  Whether Mycroft liked it or not, though John suspected it would not be an issue, all of the pictures and other artwork was going to go right back up as soon as Greg was situated in his new environment  It was already going to be a jarring shift and this would help with the transition.

      “How’d you do it, John?  How’d you… get to where you are now?”

There was no cheek in that tone and John was happy to hear that Lestrade was at least considering what he had said.

      “A lot of hard work.  It’s not going to be easy getting your physical self back together, but it’ll come.  The rest, what goes on in the mind… it didn’t really happen for me until I met Sherlock.  You didn’t know me then, Greg, and I don’t think you would have wanted to.  Back in London with nothing, literally nothing, to look forward to.  Just day in and day out of nothing.  If I hadn’t found Sherlock, I’m honestly not certain I’d be here right now.”

      “Christ, John… I never knew it was that bad.”

      “Yeah, well… it’s not something I really talk about.  Not something I’m proud of.  But that’s where you’ve got the leg up.  You do have something to look forward to.  Lots of things actually, who are going to be in your face giving their support until you can tell them to shove off and kick them hard enough to make it stick.  And you _will_ want to kick them sometimes, I have no doubt.  Mycroft, especially.  He’s terrified he’s going to lose you and he’ll do everything he can to keep that from happening.”

      “We’ve had a few little talks about that, actually.”

      “Good!  That’s actually good.  I know it’s not easy, but the more you talk about those things, the better off both of you are going to be.  This is… this is the strangest fucking relationship I’ve ever seen and I’m still surprised at how it turned out, I have to say.  But it’s still going to be tough and the more you just talk, really talk, the easier it’s going to go.”

      “What will be easier?  I cannot envision anything easier than Lestrade lying in a bed being waited on hand and foot by a legion of so-called medical professionals.  And you.”

      “You know, Sherlock… when I said you could stay home and play with the other kids, I really did mean that.”

      “Arthur and Martin are saccharinely bothersome.”

      “Oh, they got a bit lovey-dovey and scared you off?”

      “They were feeding each other, John!  _Feeding_ each other.  Setting aside issues of hygiene, it is infantile behavior.”

      “Sherlock, you eat things off my fork or out of my hands even when I don’t want you to!”

      “Only as a matter of expediency.  Why obtain my own plate or utensil when a quicker option presents itself?”

      “What were you saying about the Archduke Off-His-Trolley a moment ago, John?”

      “Something I’m seriously considering taking back.  Why are you even here, Sherlock?  Didn’t you have your poison brewing to do?  I’m sure you could ignore the lovebirds long enough to cook up something nice and lethal in the kitchen.”

      “I will not work with toxic materials with curious and incautious individuals present.”

      “You’re worried Arthur will graze on your deadly greens.”

      “I shall not provide names.”

      “So you came here to, what… watch telly?”

      “I shall observe you preparing Lestrade for his change of venue.”

      “God, he’s come to ogle me.”

      “I have stated previously that I do not find you attractive, however, you are now, at least, interesting.”

      “Hear that, John?  I’m interesting.  At least between the groin and the grin.”

      “Want me to kick him out?  Honestly, I just want to take a tiny peek, so there’s no need to do a whole holiday gift wrapping again.”

      “Oh, let him see.  Might as well have everyone get their look.  I’m sure Martin’s already been shown the photos, so why leave Sherlock out in the cold?”

And, Lestrade and John both knew, it would actually help to reassure Sherlock about Lestrade’s condition.  Any mystery would simply tug at this brain, adding to his unease.

      “Ok, but no trying to distract me so you poke your finger in anywhere or send some robotic microbe into an incision to be your own personal internal camera.”

      “I… that is not an unpalatable idea, actually.  I must speak with Mycroft about the availability of…”

      “No!  John, I believe I am taking a turn for the worst.  Clear the room.”

      “Dramatics do not suit you, Lestrade.  Leave the posturing to my brother.”

John simply shook his head and wished that Lestrade would take his advice more seriously.  He would have to in the coming days, when keeping a happy face was going to be nearly impossible, but he should be taking better care of himself now.  But, John also wondered, this might be Lestrade’s way of trying to keep up his _own_ spirits in the face of the massive wall of uncertainty he was running into.  John decided to leave the issue alone for now, but they would be having another conversation about this as soon as the pain meds started being reduced.

      “That’s it!  John, bare me naked and let him be repulsed to nausea by the sight of my carved up carcass!”

Again, John noticed the tiny flinch Sherlock gave and ran his hand along his partner’s arm to show support.

      “I can do that, but you’ve got to promise me you’ll get some rest after this.  I’ll take this one off to do something holiday-ish and I don’t think Arthur or Martin will be by early.”

      “They are devoting today to returning the Knapp-Shappey residence to its former state.  I am not certain they will visit before we leave for tonight’s dinner.”

      “Oh, then that’s what we’ll be doing, too.  And do not give me that face.  We’ve got to get packed as it is and you can devote a few minutes to putting the house back in order.  We’ll get your and Mycroft’s things pulled together too, Greg, so don’t worry about that.  And I _am_ bringing your room sign with us.  That’s a piece of art.”

John set about cutting away the bandages carefully, since Greg’s laughter was making the work tricky.

      “That boy… he knew the score and still dropped us into the same space with a big welcome sign.  He could be a matchmaker if the flying thing gets old.”

      “Besides his unfathomable enjoyment of functioning as a slave during flight, I do not predict that Arthur would step away from his role so long as Martin continues to be flight-worthy.  He has a rather significant protective nature when it comes to my cousin and would not leave him unattended unless there were extenuating circumstances, such as you and your lack of vitality.”

John swatted away Sherlock’s hands, but was too late to stop the detective from depositing some of the soiled bandages in a plastic bag he had obviously brought along just for that purpose or to give Sherlock a caution that the sight might be upsetting.  Which it obviously was for the normally unflappable Sherlock Holmes.

      “Sherlock?”

      “It is nothing.  Are you quite sure, however, that the staff are actually qualified surgeons and did not graduate from butcher’s college?”

      “See!  Told you!  Butchery!”

      “Calm down, Greg.  He’s being… _him_ , as usual.  Looks a bit better today, actually.”

Sherlock stared incredulously at John who again paused a moment to just touch his partner to steady him.  It was times like these that John wished Sherlock could more easily express his feelings, not only to him, but to the man in the bed who Sherlock so obviously cared about.

      “You appearance is as one who has been torn apart by wild dogs.  That will please my brother greatly.”

      “What in the hell are you talking about?”

      “Mycroft has always had a fascination with challenge and success.  You appear as if you engaged in combat with feral dogs and emerged victorious, or at least survived the experience.  That will appeal to him, especially since you will wear the evidence of your success to remind him of your worth.”

John stared open-mouthed at his partner, but didn’t miss the water that rose up in Lestrade’s eyes at Sherlock’s words.  Sometimes, John had to admit, Sherlock surprised them all.

      “W…well, it’s good to know I’m not getting the boot since my sexiness took a bit of a knock.”

      “I refuse to comment on your sexual appeal until John finds a suitable container into which I may expectorate my disgust.”

And with that, Sherlock had returned to his examination of the various incisions and wounds on Lestrade’s body, using a tape measure to check dimensions and muttering various things about color patterns and ridgelines.  John continued with his work, ignoring his partner’s studies, but shared a look with Lestrade that said if Sherlock did ask for samples for analysis, he just might get his prize.

__________

Mycroft walked into the hospital room and could only heave a sigh, watching his brother make his examination of the Detective Inspector as if the man was one of his precious cadavers at the morgue.  And was it absolutely necessary for him to touch!  At least someone, likely John, had made sure that he was gloved, but really… they indulged his brother shamefully.

      “If I cannot leave Gregory alone without justifiable worry that his person is not being violated, then he shall not be left alone again.  Myself or a properly armed representative will maintain vigil at all times.”

      “Sherlock’s just having a bit of fun.  Never got to play with a living autopsy victim before.”

      “You lack the standard Y-incision for an autopsy, so kindly cease attempting to make either jokes or analogies.”    

      “And he’s also entertaining me.  That wit!  People would pay money for that. John must go to bed every night with this sides aching from all the laughing.”

      “Gregory, we will have to have a conversation about setting limits when it comes to my brother’s demands.”

      “Well, so long as you have it after his nap, I’m all for it.  Come on, Sherlock.  You can help me get these dressings finished then we’ve got a house to clean and then get ready for the big night.  At least as big as Fitton can put on for us.”

      “I have taken the liberty of having a small chat with several of the local restaurants, John, and believe there will be quite an admirable selection of items on offer for tonight’s celebration.   I would have had the event catered, however, both Arthur and Martin do have some degree of local pride and I would not want to offend them.”

      “It is a simple dinner, Mycroft, not a diplomatic function.  I hope you do not attempt to deliver your standard measure of arrogant overindulgence to every aspect of Arthur and Martin’s impending wedding.”

      “I shall deliver the precise measure of overindulgence to make their wedding and the events leading up to their wedding well worth remembering.”

      “This is simply another opportunity for you to sink you talons deeper into their lives.”

      “Oh dear, that does remind me to schedule a manicure.  My talons are in great need of both polishing and sharpening.”

      “Come on, Sherlock… you can keep this up all day and Greg’ll just sit there and listen, refusing to get any rest until you take a bow.  So bow out now and let’s go.”

Sherlock’s scowl screamed he didn’t want to walk away with Mycroft having the last word, but he cut his eyes quickly towards the hospital bed and settled for a snort and letting John make a last check of Lestrade’s new bandages before leading him out of the room with a round of goodbyes and a warning to Lestrade to get a little rest before he met with an IV filled with tranquilizers.

      “Sherlock’s future presence in my house is already a matter on which I have contemplated most seriously, however, if his behavior serves to agitate you and impede your progress, further contemplation will not be necessary.  He shall be banned.”

      “Calm down, Mycroft.  Actually, he was surprisingly helpful with a few things.”

      “He has obviously baffled you with some form of trickery.”

      “Nah, it just helps seeing things from multiple sides.  Get different views… or the same view from different people.  I’ll promise to let you know if he’s being an arse, if that makes you feel better.”

      “I shall hold you to that.  There will be sufficient difficulties in your upcoming days without the additional chaos my brother can create.”

      “It’ll all be fine, stop your worrying.  Nothing I can’t handle.”

But John’s words made Lestrade pause and, at least, reflect on what he had said.  All to make Mycroft happy.

      “But, I _will_ say something if it’s getting to be too much.  I’ll tell you or John to have a word with him if Sherlock won’t listen to me when I say bugger off.  And… if I’m getting a little overwhelmed by anyone else.  Especially someone I can’t say bugger off to.”

Mycroft nodded and was actually surprised that Lestrade was finally admitting to the realization that keeping a brave face was not going to be possible as he moved through the harsher stages of his recovery.

      “That will be sufficient.  Now, I know you will not rest as John has instructed for your eyes are not demonstrating your typical indicators of fatigue, so in what manner may I keep you occupied until my meeting?”

      “Draw me something.”

It was unseemly to feel such a giddy pride about something so divorced from his other battery of more useful talents, but Mycroft could not help the small internal flutter knowing his Gregory appreciated and enjoyed his art.

      “A mate for your dragon?”

      “Surprise me.  Anything you do will be amazing, so just… surprise me.”

      “As you wish.  Do you desire the music player that Arthur left you?”

      “Nah, just want to watch you draw.  It’s fun and you’ve got sexy hands which makes it even nicer.”

      “Then I shall do my best to flaunt them in a most provocative manner.”

Mycroft gathered his pad and pencils to the sound of his partner’s giggling and felt himself relaxing already, secure in the knowledge that it would not be terribly long before they would be doing this in their home, on a sofa, with the Detective Inspector’s back pressed against his chest or head lying in his lap and the rest of the world fading from their notice…

__________

      “Arthur!  Are you ready?  We can’t be late – it’s our own party!”

      “I can’t decide what to wear!  I mean, it’s a party, but Mum doesn’t know that and I don’t want to dress too fancy, but Mycroft said he’d make tonight special, so I don’t want to dress too blech and, though I’m not sure if there will be dancing, I ought to be prepared for dancing or party games.”

      “I think we can rule out both dancing and party games if Mycroft is involved.”

      “Really?  Well, that’s rather sad because I’m sure Mycroft would plan dancing and games if he went to lots of parties that had dancing and games and knew how much fun that was, but he apparently doesn’t go to a lot of dancing and games parties and that’s just a sad thing because everyone should go to lots of dancing and games parties, but especially Mycroft since he’s in charge of most everything and some dancing and games would be a nice change and a lot of fun.”

      “You might mention that to him.  When Greg’s up and walking around, they can go dancing and play games.”

      “Well, they do already dance.  I got to watch them dance around Mycroft’s house and it was brilliant!  I don’t know about games, though.  I’ll have to ask and make a list of fun games if they don’t already have one.”

      “Good.  Now, just toss on some trousers and a comfortable shirt and let’s go.  Sherlock’s just come up here and started to glare at me and he is _not_ going away until we leave.”

Arthur fretted a few moments more before closing his eyes and shoving his hands into his closet, feeling around for trousers and a shirt and drew out the first of each his fingers landed on.  Grey trousers and his bright purple button-up with the yellow stripy collar.  Brilliant!  He’d wear nice trousers and a party-fun shirt and have the best of everything!

      “I’m ready!  Ta dah!”

      “You look… perfect.”

      “Are you hopeful that clowns will be present at the restaurant and accept your audition for a position amongst their traveling troupe?”

      “Clowns!  Are there going to be clowns!  Oh, Mr. Sherlock, that would be brilliant!  I adore clowns, especially the ones that do tricks or have little doggies that dance when they play music and…”

      “There are not going to be any clowns.  Or other members of the circus performance roster.”

      “Oh… well, that’s alright.  There won’t be dancing or games, either, so it won’t seem odd when the little doggies are dancing and there’s tumbling and balloons.”

      “Place a trifle in front of Mycroft and you’ll have all of the tumbling and dancing you could ever want to see.”

      “Mr. Sherlock, do we need a small sit-down chat about being nice before we go so we don’t have to have a small sit-down chat later?”

      “No.”

      “Are you sure?”

      “Yes.”

      “Ok, then.  Let’s go.  I’m sure Doctor Watson is getting lonely all by himself downstairs and if we get there after Mum, she’ll have words for us.”

      “I assume they won’t be nice words, either.”

      “That would be a good assumption.”

__________

      “Oh my!  Oh oh oh oh oh my!”

      “Mycroft did say he was going to make this special.”

      “Oh, Skip… it’s brilliant!”

Even John and Sherlock were a bit taken aback by the scene.  For a very unassuming establishment on the outside, it had been entirely reconfigured on the inside into something that _could_ only be called special.  The space was empty of other patrons, as well as all of the tables and chairs save a single large one in the room’s center that was covered with a deep green tablecloth, well-provided with highly-reflective silver thread.  The lights were dimmed, there were strings of small white lights across the ceiling and the table was littered with candles that all reflected off of the numerous mirrors that were placed on the walls.  There were a number of potted trees nestled between the mirrors and these, also, were wrapped with tiny twinkling lights.  John tapped Sherlock’s arm and then pointed to his own ear.  The detective stilled a moment before nodding that John was _not_ hearing things and that the small sounds in the air very accurately replicated what one would hear on a quiet night in the country.

      “It’s… it’s a fairyland.”

Arthur’s eyes glittered in the simulated starlight and the smile on his face was brighter than anything in the room.

      “I thought it appropriate for the magical quality of your impending union, my dear boy.”

Arthur whirled and gave a squeak before hugging Mycroft tightly.

      “This is amazing!  Oh, I’ve got to take a picture.”

While Arthur took a series of photos, Martin just shook his head and stared at his cousin.  If this was a simple dinner to announce their engagement to the rest of their family then… he didn’t even want to envision what was in store for the actual wedding.

      “You simply cannot contain your tendencies, can you, Mycroft?”

      “When I arrange a similar gathering for you and your good doctor, I shall confer with Gregory and the charming young woman at the morgue and festoon your favorite take-away hovel with body parts, crime scene tape and police torches.”

      “Considering that the number of individuals I would see fit to invite to such an event amounts to one, John, that would be most appropriate.”

      “Nonsense, I am quite certain Martin and Arthur would be most happy to attend, though I might have to rethink my theme as I do not believe young Arthur would appreciate the novelty.”

      “Excuse me, I don’t believe Sherlock and I are quite in the market for an engagement party.”

      “Don’t bother, John.  One day, you’ll just wake up and there will be Mycroft rummaging through your flat to work up your gifts list to send out with the invitations.  You’re doomed and you might as well just learn to be happy as a doomed man.”

      “I need a drink.”

      “Sherlock, make yourself useful and obtain for your better half a suitable beverage.  I believe he would prefer one with a high percentage of alcohol.”

      “Yep, stiff as a board, thank you very much.”

Sherlock stalked off just seconds before a fresh arrival took in the festive scene.

      “Good heavens!  With the addition of a disco ball, I would worry that I was suffering a flashback to the 1970’s.  Not that I would mind that particularly, but since the female component of the evening is not likely to be wearing Spandex, I would rather avoid the mental confusion.”

Martin's put-upon sigh was well-honed through ages of practice.

      “Always have to make an entrance, don’t you, Douglas?”

      “I don’t _have_ to, I simply _choose_ to, Sir.  Now, are you going to introduce me to your entourage or shall I have to shame you by asking you formally to perform your hostly duties?  Oh, apparently I already have if the rather cherry-like color of your face is any indication.”

      “Fine.  Douglas Richardson may I present John Watson, Sherlock’s partner, and Mycroft Holmes, my other cousin.”

Martin wondered slightly about the rather menacing look that crossed Mycroft’s face, but he didn’t have to wonder for long. 

      “I believe, Martin, you have made a social faux pas.  When introducing a man to other men, you present the individual of lower social standing to the one of higher.  Therefore it should have been ‘Mycroft, may I present my subservient, Douglas Richardson.’  Do remember that for future events.”

Martin was sure there was that specific ozone smell in the air that signaled an impending lightning strike and moved aside to ensure he wasn’t standing in a direct-line path between Mycroft and Douglas.

      “I didn’t know they had amended the hierarchy of social ranking to score ponciness as a point towards standing.”

      “I do believe it was at the same time that character was placed on a sliding scale, which, I regret to report, has weighed heavily against some, as I am sure you are, unfortunately, keenly aware.

Martin had never thought about what he wanted as a wedding gift, but this was definitely it.

      “Boys, you’re both pretty, now can we remember why we’re here?”

      “A free meal, I am sure, in Mr. Richardson’s case.”

      “The chance to pretend he has friends, in Mr. Holmes’s case.”

      “Ah, Sherlock.  Good.  And you brought me alcohol, which is why I love you best.  Martin, sort this out and we’ll go and help Arthur photograph every inch of the restaurant, which seems to be his intention.”

      “Yes, Martin, sort this out.”

      “Please do, dear cousin.  I am most anxious to observe your technique.”

      “I hate you all.”

      “I am your employer, soon-to-be-ex-Captain Crieff.  Hate me at your peril.  On second thought, hate as you like, for the alternative is too horrifying to contemplate.”

Carolyn's entrance into the restaurant was precisely as sigh-inducing for Martin as was Douglas's, but, at least the evening could officially get off the ground now that everyone was here.

      “Ah, the Alpha Dog arrives.  Make way lest your leg be mistaken for a tree.”

      “Whereas captains who work nearly for free can be considered a limited resource, first officers are properly and colorfully described as ‘a dime a dozen.’  Martin, was there a reason you saw fit to bring together both petrol and a match under one entirely flammable roof?”

      “Dinner, Carolyn.  It’s just dinner.”

      “Idiot boy.  It is never _just_ dinner when more than one person is involved.”

      “MUM!  Hi!  It’s me!”

      “Thank you for reminding me what my son looks like, Arthur.”

      “You’re welcome.  And isn’t this brilliant!  Mycroft made a fairy kingdom just for our dinner!  And you can hear little bats and bugs and all sorts of things and I already made friends with the people who work here and they are VERY nice and said we’re going to have all sorts of good things to eat and there’s even cake and juice and everything!”

      “Notice that I am not wearing my surprised face, Arthur.  Mr. Holmes has proven to be a man both uselessly wealthy and stupidly besotted with you.  Now, I do believe that doctor person has a drink in his hand.  I do _not_ have a drink in my hand.  Do you understand the current direction of my conversation, light of my life?”

      “It involves hands, doesn’t it?”

      “Yes, and the lack of drinks in said hands.  I would wager that if you went to one of your new friends and pointed out the lack of beverages among their guests, my hands would no longer be empty.”

      “Ok!  I can do that.  They really are very nice.  I’ll be right back.”

Arthur scurried off and Carolyn hoped no one noticed the fond look she gave her only son as he left.

      “Now, are we going to stand here rather like those garish trees or is it permitted to take a seat?  I presume those are normal seats and not some form of fairy thrones one must wear a crown of flowers to occupy.”

Mycroft wondered if some form of fairy exchange had swapped Arthur with Carolyn's real child, who had to have been born with horns, hooves and a glare worthy of the Alpha Dog herself.

      “I assure you, your current crown of thorns is more than suitable, Mrs. Knapp-Shappey.”

      “Finally, one of you raggedy lot recognizes the extent of my sacrifices.”

Douglas and Mycroft entered into a silent agreement to acknowledge the common enemy and followed Carolyn to the table, where an army of servers were beginning to cover the table with platters of starters and filling glasses with water, servers with bottles of wine standing at the ready.

      “Hurray!  It’s time to eat!  Skip, you sit next to me and then everyone else can sit where they’d like.  OH!  Wait!  Mycroft, don’t sit yet.”

Arthur raced over and dragged the unprotesting Mycroft Holmes to the other side of the room and motioned for him to lean down so they could have a whispered conversation. 

      “Ok, everyone is here and Mum is actually in a good mood so it’s going to be a good time for Skip and me to make our big announcement, but the bracelets aren’t here!”

      “And that is to be expected.   You set quite the tall order for our artisans and they are working diligently to render your model into very attractive pieces.  However, I have been assured that they will be delivered this evening.”

      “When?”

      “That I cannot answer.”

      “Can you find out?”

      “Arthur, you seem rather anxious and that will not serve to promote good digestion.”

      “It’s just… I want it all to go well, Mycroft!  I mean… I want to give Skip his bracelet and have his face light up with his brilliant smile and Mum… well, have Mum at least not call us idiots… and everyone be happy and have a good time, but especially Skip because I’ve never really made anything like this, not that I actually made our bracelets, but I came up with the idea and I don’t want it to get late and everyone is tired and Skip is a little cross because of… well, Mum and Douglas and Mr. Sherlock, and then he sees his bracelet and he can’t get past being cross and doesn’t like it and…”

      “Arthur?  Watch me for one moment, will you?  Good.  See how I am extracting my mobile from my pocket?  Excellent.  Now, I am placing a call to the jeweler and…ah.  Yes, I am hoping for a promising update on the arrival time of Mr. Shappey’s pieces.  You are?  How fortunate.  Yes, that is the address.  Of course, and do give my thanks to all involved…  There.  Your pieces are completed and shall be delivered shortly.  Does that allay your concerns?”

      “Hurray!  Mycroft, you’re the absolute best.  Really, I have to say a big thank you to Mr. Sherlock because he let me be his assistant and help with Skip because I wouldn’t have gotten to know you and it’s been so exciting knowing you and…oh!”

Mycroft contentedly endured another firm hug and let Arthur wipe his eyes before clasping his adopted younger brother’s shoulders and giving him a smile warmer than any of his underlings would have ever believed him capable.

      “I feel very privileged to have met you, as well, Arthur.  You cannot imagine much brightness you have brought to my life and I shall always be immensely grateful.  Now, shall we rejoin the others?  Your fiancé is attempting to read our minds and failing, if I correctly read his level of annoyance.”

      “Oh, he tries that a lot, I think.  Especially when Douglas is around and there’s a cheese tray involved.  But, we’ll always have time to talk, right?  Just me and you?  Because sometimes that’s very nice and you understand things that the others don’t and… it’s just nice.”

      “As often as you like, dear boy.  It will always be something I greatly treasure.”

__________

Martin let out a huge sigh when Mycroft and Arthur returned to the table because he did not want to think about the conniving the two of them could get up to when left alone.  Mycroft’s influence and Arthur’s creativity were a combination that would be unstoppable if Mycroft decided that he was tired of running things from behind the scenes and chose to publicly take the crown of Emperor of the World with his trusty aide at his side.

      “Now that the monkey and his organ grinder have returned, Martin may I ask exactly why you have decided to host a dinner for the blessed departure of your hangers-on?”

      “Now Mum, don’t be so fussy about things.  Have some wine or juice or whatever Doctor Watson’s having and just try and relax, please.”

Carolyn reached over, took a sip from John’s glass and, after an appreciative nod, motioned a server to bring her one, using two fingers to signal that a double would be necessary for her to make it successfully through the evening.

      “At least there’s one real man in this group.  Starting early and with a good scotch.”

      “Speaking of real men, and I use the term only in the genetic sense, where is Hercules this evening?”

      “I believe his words were something to the effect of he would rather be dragged behind a car over a road strewn with broken glass and glowing coals than sit through a dinner with one Douglas Richardson.  Which is you.  Hence his absence.  There may also have been the issue of my refusal to relay his vegetarianism towards the fake Mr. Farmer and the fact that there should be one pilot in the vicinity who is fit to fly after the leeches at this table consume their body weight in free food and are subsequently incapable of independent motion tomorrow morning.”

John had to chuckle at the eyes certain individuals were cutting the CEO of MJN and not for the first time marveled that Arthur, with his completely sweet and jubilant nature, was the son of a Valkyrie.  But, stranger things had happened and he, for one, was glad for it.  So glad, that he made his own ‘bring me a double’ motion towards a nearby server and decided to settle in for a very entertaining evening.

      “I can assure you that you shall have a crew in fine shape to travel, Mrs. Knapp-Shappey for the time of departure is quite flexible.”

      “Oh?  Do enlighten me.”

      “Your fine aircraft has been chartered for a purpose that does not have a necessary time for completion.”

      “And you would know this because once again you have paid for my ignorance about who is truly my client.”

      “That would be correct.  It was thought by some parties that you would be more agreeable if you were not aware that the flight to London and would be carrying persons who might choose to remain an extra day or so in the city.  I assume the compensation you were offered quite offsets any inconvenience.”

      “Arthur and Martin want to take another holiday in London, using my aircraft as their personal party plane.”

      “I would not phrase it as such, since there will be no undue frolicking en route.”

      “That’s true, Mum.  We’ll be taking Greg home and he can’t join in a party since he can’t actually get out of his bed, but I guess we could give him a little hat and that might make him feel more party-like.”

      “Look, Carolyn.  Greg needs to go back to London and he should be taken by air.  This way, everyone gets home, Arthur can make sure that everything is acceptable for Greg’s comfort, which will ease _his_ mind, and then we’re coming back, with Arthur ready and eager to return to work.”

      “That’s true!  I’m ready to formally end my leave of absence.  Well, as soon as we get back from London, which shouldn’t take very long, at all.  Well, not more than a day or two.  Or four.  Maybe six.  It’s hard to say, but not long.  Or at least not very, very long.”

      “Arthur, I have been quite patient with you through all of this, however…”

      “Perhaps this will help?”

Mycroft slid an envelope over towards Carolyn who viewed it with as much suspicion as she would Douglas bearing a box of chocolates.

      “What is this?”

      “A small token of my appreciation for your tolerance of our somewhat atypical situation.  I trust you have no policy against the acceptance of gifts from appreciative clients?  Gifts involving an agreeable holiday.  For two.  Perhaps in a lovely hired residence in Greece?”

      “Resorting to bribery, Mr. Holmes?  You must think Carolyn’s purchase price…”

      “Has been met.  Thank you, Mr. Holmes.  Arthur, enjoy London.”

      “Hurray!  That’s brilliant!  We get to go to London, we get to go to London…”

Arthur sang and danced in his chair and Mycroft waved the staff to begin taking away the quickly emptying platters of food and bring heartier fare.  A brief look at the manager sent the man scurrying to check on the cake and champagne, which was the last action Mycroft could take for the moment towards their soon to be disclosed celebration.  Looking around the table, he watched as the conversation flowed, and the mood relaxed and committed every detail to memory so as to provide Lestrade with a full picture of the evening.  It had been brutally hard leaving the Detective Inspector behind, alone in hospital bed, but his Gregory would take absolutely none of his carefully crafted excuses as a reason to bow out of the dinner.  Fortunately, Arthur had yet to put away his phone and was happily taking pictures of everyone and properly documenting the evening so, in some small way, they later could share their time with the man who wouldn’t be able to attend any joyful function for quite some time.

Mycroft was enjoying listening to Douglas give his unvarnished opinion of Sherlock’s death and resurrection when the manager tapped him on the shoulder and handed him two boxes that were nicely heavy for their size.  Mycroft excused himself and motioned Arthur to join him, escorting the young man to a darkened corner to hand over the much-awaited surprise.

      “I believe these are for you.”

Arthur’s eyes grew so wide that Mycroft actually had a concern they would stick in the open position for eternity.

      “They’re here?”

      “Yes, would you care to examine them first, just in case they do not meet with your approval?”

Arthur looked as if he touched the boxes they would vanish in a puff of smoke, but eventually reached out and took one from Mycroft’s hand.  He slowly lifted the lid and it was only Mycroft’s well-honed reflexes that kept Arthur from collapsing to the ground.

      “Arthur!  Are you quite alright?”

      “Oh… oh Mycroft… oh… oh, I can’t…. oh dear…”

      “Is ‘oh’ your personal code for a good or bad outcome?”

      “It’s… it’s perfect.  Better than perfect.  It’s brilliantly perfect and oh…Mycroft, I think it is time.”

      “For your announcement?”

      “Yes.  I can’t wait to give this to Skip and I can’t give it to him without telling Mum and Douglas, so I have to make my announcement so Skip can get his bracelet and…”

Mycroft handed over his handkerchief for Arthur to wipe his eyes for a second time and waited quietly for the young man to pull together his emotions.

      “Thank you, Mycroft.  You helped me with my idea and set things up and…”

      “Anything I can do to assist, my boy.  You ever have only to ask.  Now, do you feel prepared to reveal your good news or do you require a few more minutes?”

      “I do believe that I am ready.  Or as ready as I can be.  I suddenly feel a bit swirly, but if Skip could ask me to marry him and not be silly about it, then I can do the same.  Not that I’m asking him to marry me, of course, because we _are_ getting married, but it sort of like that and it’s still a bit of an occasion and I just hope I do a good job.”

      “I can assure you that you will perform wonderfully.”

      “Really?  Brilliant!  If you say I’ll do a good job then I have to believe it, because you’ve probably had a lot of practice knowing when someone is or isn’t ready to do something.  So ok, I’m ready.”

      “Then on we go.”

Mycroft handed over the second box and followed a visibly trembling Arthur back to the table and five pairs of curious eyes.  Arthur sat down and, after a last look towards Mycroft for reassurance, set his boxes on the table and faced his mother.

      “Mum, there’s actually another reason for this nice evening besides saying goodbye to Mycroft and Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Watson and Greg.  It’s… well, it’s like this…”

This time, Arthur looked at Martin who gave him a gentle smile of encouragement.

      “Here it is.  Skip asked me to marry him and I said yes and we’re going to have a wedding and be husbands and live happily ever after.  Please don’t be mad.”

Arthur grabbed Martin’s hand and squeezed, hoping that if his mother erupted he could drag his Skip under the table to avoid being hit by flying pieces of Mum.

      “Well, that’s finally done.  Now, is there any more veal?”

Arthur’s mouth dropped and he looked hard across the table to make sure that his Mum was actually his Mum and not a robot or a surprise Mum twin or a mirage.

      “Arthur, you should likely close your mouth before something winged and unsavory mistakes your tongue for a landing strip.  And I presume that congratulations are in order, though I honestly have no real idea how to successfully mesh the idea of felicitations and a union between two people entirely unsuitable for the institution of marriage.”

      “Arthur and Martin are surprisingly well-matched, Mr. Richardson.  Or, at least, complementary.  I would not have thought that Martin would present as an appropriate suitor for anyone, let alone someone of quality, but I appear to have been mistaken.  In this one case, I do not find myself minding that fact.”

      “Thanks, Mr. Sherlock.  Mum… don’t you have anything else to say?”

      “Like what?”

      “I… I don’t know, but you haven’t called me witless or given Skip a stern talking-to or anything!”

      “Arthur, you, for all that it surprises me mightily, are an adult.  As such, you have the right to make you own choices and if you choose to pledge your troth to that dithering buffoon, then that is your own business.  However, do not believe for one moment that you shall make your marital bed under my roof and live off of my largesse.”

      “Come again?”

      “I am not a hotelier.  You two have my blessing to enter the holy state of matrimony, so long as you do it in your own flat and do not bring by your laundry for me to wash.”

      “Oh!  Oh… well, that’s ok.  Skip and I _should_ have our own home and we can live in his flat until…”

The various and forceful versions of ‘no’ or ‘under no circumstances’ nearly rocked Arthur backwards in his chair.

      “Arthur, my boy, we shall discuss the nature of your future living arrangements at a later time when we are farther along in your wedding plans.  Now, however, I believe you have a gift you would like to bestow to your fiancé?”

      “What?  Right.  Yes!  I do… I really, really do.  Thanks, Mycroft!”

Arthur shifted in his chair so he could face his Skipper and quickly peeked in the boxes, pulling one towards himself and taking the other up in his hand.

      “Skip, we’re engaged now and engaged people, well, at least engaged ladies, wear rings to show they’re engaged, but we’re not ladies, so I wanted something to show that we were going to get married, but wasn’t a ring, since we’ll have our wedding rings and I can’t see wearing two rings, so I talked to Mycroft and this was what we thought of and I designed it, which was what I was working on that you couldn’t see and… well, here.  Thank you for asking me to marry you, Skip and please accept this as our way of showing that we’re going to be husbands.”

Martin took the box that Arthur was holding out to him and carefully opened the lid.  Inside he found a bracelet.  A substantial bracelet, but one obviously sized for his wrist.  He picked it up and looked carefully at the details carved into the silvery metal.  The outer edges were heavily incised with thin diagonal lines that reminded Martin of the barbs of a feather.  The rest of the bracelet carried what looked at a distance like some form of pictographic writing, but on closer inspection were actually pictures that very closely resembled those Arthur made when he took up a pen.  There were familiar animals, what looked oddly like his van and small buildings that he recognized as places they had visited during their first London trip together.  And there was no mistaking GERTI centered and up high towards the top.  On each side was a sizeable and extremely sparkly stone which Martin had no doubt was a diamond and under GERTI was a large, inset stone that flashed deep blues and greens that spanned most of what would be the top of his wrist.  As Martin turned the bracelet, little splashes of red and gold also came through he was put in mind of a vast tropical ocean that held small, colorful fish.  Looking on the underside, he found a simple heart with Skip + Arthur inscribed inside.  It was the most ostentatious, attention-getting piece of jewelry a man could wear and it was perfectly and utterly Arthur.  Martin felt his eyes growing moist as he slipped the bracelet over his wrist, marveling at the way it caught the light and the substantial weight that would always remind him that the was wearing it and who loved him enough to give this to him.

      “Well, do you like it?”

Like was far too weak a word for how Martin felt about his gift.

      “I love it, Arthur.  You’ve put so much on here… so much that means something to us… it’s perfect.  It’s exactly what I would I have expected from you, so it is absolutely the most amazing, brilliant bracelet in the world.”

Arthur let out a loud ‘Hurray!’ and quickly slid his onto his wrist, before shoving his arm out into the center of the table for it to be admired.

      “White gold, Mr. Holmes?”

      “Platinum, actually, Mr. Richardson.”

      “The diamonds… only a carat apiece, if I’m not mistaken.”

      “Martin’s wrists really preclude anything larger.”

      “True.  Colorless, of course.”

      “D grade, naturally.”

      “Flawless?”

      “Internally flawless, we _were_ running rather short on time.”

      “That’s true! I only got my design made last night and the jeweler made these today!”     

      “Arthur, you do realize you are likely wearing the equivalent of a very nice new automobile on your wrist?”

      “Why in the world would I want to wear a car on my wrist, Douglas?  For one, it would be very heavy and for two, well… it wouldn’t be as lovely as this!”

Arthur made sure everyone got a very good look at his and Martin’s bracelets, while John captured the reactions with Arthur’s phone and Douglas wondered if there were any single female Holmes members hiding in the family tree.

      “I believe the time has come for a toast.”

Mycroft waved his fingers and champagne was brought out, followed closely by a two-tier, sky-blue cake decorated with air-brushed white and silver clouds, a bright yellow spun-sugar sun sitting on top, which captivated Arthur completely.  When everyone had a glass of champagne, with juice for Arthur and Douglas, Mycroft addressed the table.

      “To Arthur and Martin.  It is exceedingly rare to find examples of true happiness in this world and I am honored to be in the presence of the finest example of them all, two people who have found the other half of themselves and become one in their hearts.  Congratulations and best wishes for a long and loving life together.”

Sherlock watched the drinking of champagne and the cutting of the cake, the radiant glow of both his cousin and his fiancé and realized that he had not once during the evening thought of being somewhere other than here.  Sitting and participating in the viewing of a film was a minor thing, but he had never been good at what would call parties, always making some mistake and wishing most of the time that he could simply vanish and leave the bother behind him.  But with John at his side for support, such situations were becoming easier to manage.  With John by his side, many things were becoming easier to manage…

      “Sherlock?  You doing ok?”

      “Of course.  I am simply observing the various celebratory rituals and reactions.  Martin and Arthur especially seem to appreciate the protocols and observances.”

      “They’re happy, that’s all that really matters.”

      “I suppose that is true.  John…”

      “Yeah?”

      “Are _you_ happy?”

John stared at his partner and readied a sarcastic comeback, but something in Sherlock’s eyes told him that was not the right way to respond.

      “Yes, I am.  I am _very_ happy, in fact.”

Sherlock was a split-second too slow to hide his pleased grin from John’s eyes, which settled a comfortable warmth in John’s chest.

      “Good.  Of course, I suspected as much, for my skills as a romantic partner have been surprisingly robust.”

      “That’s true.  I especially love the _robust_ part.”

      “Is that a sexual reference?”

      “Well spotted.”

      “I am getting better at recognizing your use of innuendo.”

      “Good, then you can give your brother some tips.  Greg’s sad attempts actually go right over Mycroft’s head.”

      “I most certainly shall not.  He will have to navigate his way through the verbal minefield of casual banter just as did I, though he truly has no hope of meeting with the same level of success.”

      “And why’s that?”

      “I had an excellent teacher.”

      “Ok, that earned you a special lesson later tonight.”

      “How special?”

      “I believe you’ve mentioned the librarian and the naughty Uni boy?”

      “Are we required to stay here for the duration of the celebration?”

      “We are, but anticipation can be fun.  And I’m sure there’s a restroom in walking distance if you need to take the edge off.”

Sherlock set his napkin on the table and plucked Arthur’s phone from John’s hand, sliding it across to within Arthur’s reach.

      “John, I require use of the facilities.”

      “You know, I think I do to.  First one there is on his knees.”

For once, John had no issue trailing after the tall form that raced away from the table and towards their next adventure.


	49. Each Ending Means A New Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this chapter closes... I can never fully express my gratitude for all of the support I have received for his ride and I hope that you are willing to continue that support when the next leg of the journey commences...

Arthur could not believe that anyone, anywhere, at any time, could be as happy as him.  He was going to marry the most wonderful man in the world, had a BIG family that loved them both and who were going to be part of their lives forever.  He looked at each face around the table, wondering a moment where John and Sherlock had been for so long, but concentrating mostly on how everyone was smiling.  Even his mum!  Not that she was teeth-smiling, but she wasn’t frowning as hard as she normally did, so it was the same thing as a smile.

      “Arthur, you’ve been quiet.  You see why I’m a little worried?”

      “Oh Skip… it’s all just so wonderful.  And we can have this anytime!  Maybe not with everyone at the _same_ time all of the time, but it’s not just me and Mum anymore, or you by yourself.  It’s everyone!  And it’s all because you, Skip!  Maybe it didn’t happen in a very good way, what with you and your _little problem_ , but it all worked out for the best.  No… better than the best!  It’s brilliant!  Skip Brilliant!, even.  Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Watson got to be boyfriends, Mycroft and Greg got to be boyfriends, we’re getting to be husbands!... Mum hasn’t been complaining about money nearly as much and Douglas… well, Douglas has made lots of new friends on the trips Mycroft has been sending GERTI on and that’s made him _very_ happy, which is just as it should be when you make new friends.  And it’s all because of you!  Isn’t that wonderful!

Martin was not about to accept a scrap of credit for anything good that had happened of late, because that would mean accepting the blame for all of the bad and that was something that was threatening to cripple him already.  No matter what Sherlock said or anyone else believed, there was a lot of guilt and blame resting on his shoulders.  But at least he didn’t have to carry it alone.  He would always have some help when things got too heavy to carry and that help would be completely thrilled to shoulder a corner of the load.

      “I would say it’s all about _you_ , Arthur.  You’re the one that’s tied the whole business up in a box with an enormous bow.  Without you, we’d all be in our own little corners starting at a wall, so I think you deserve the credit for the good things that have been happening.  And I, for one, am in awe of your talent for waving your magic wand and getting the good to come bubbling up from anyone and anything you’ve seen, even the lost causes in my family.  You’re a special person, love.  The most special person I’ve ever met and I’m not the only one who thinks so; just look around at everyone here and I can tell you they all think the very same thing.  Oh, are you getting misty again?”

      “Perhaps a little.”

      “You have to promise me that you won’t cry at the wedding, because you’ll start me crying, too and I’d rather not have us up there in front of everyone unable to go through with things because we’re crying too much.”

      “I’ll try, Skip, but this is one time I don’t know if I’ll be able to do more than try, because I’ll be so happy that it’s going to have to come out in some way, maybe several ways and, after singing and shouting and dancing, crying is about the only thing left.”

      “I’m sure you’ll do your best.  Now, if I’m not mistaken, there’s a little cake that hasn’t been eaten and I know how you hate to leave little bits of cake behind.”

      “I do!  It’s not right that just because people started on other parts of the cake first that some bits don’t get to be eaten and have to go and live in the rubbish.  And I think I have enough room in my stomach for half of what is left.  Do you have room, too?”

      “I think I can find space.  I just hope Mycroft was serious about getting started a little later tomorrow.  I’m fairly certain I’ll need a good bit of sleep for all of this celebration to properly digest.”

      “I know!  This has been amazing.  Mycroft is the best!  I have no idea how he does it, besides magic, which I’m not entirely convinced is not case, but I’m very grateful for it.  I mean… a fairyland!  And yummy cake!  And, well, I do have to give him a lot of credit for our bracelets because I had no idea what to do and he helped me come up with an idea and then made sure that I got exactly what I wanted and… aren’t they wonderful!  I’ll show you my model later and you can see just what a super job the nice jeweler did with these.  But the important thing… Mycroft listened to me.   Mycroft and Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Watson and Greg… they listen to me and, even when I’m a bit excited and having a hard time saying what I want to say without using lots and lots of words, they listen and don’t think I’m silly for what I have to say.  They’re like you, Skip… and I’ve never really had a lot of people like that in my life.  And now that we’re going to be husbands, I’ll get to have them forever and…”

Arthur had to take up a napkin and dab at his eyes before his tears began to run down his cheeks.

      “Now, _that’s_ going a little more than misty.”

      “I cannot say that’s not true.”

      “Well here…”

Martin pulled the platter with the last of the cake over towards him and took up a sizeable forkful to hold in front of Arthur’s mouth.

      “Eat cake.”

Arthur wiped his eyes a final time and opened his mouth wide for the very large hunk of cake and took it into his mouth in one large bite.

      “You _will_ have to suffer them from now on, with all their various nonsense, and I have to say that I’m glad for it.”

      “Ebn fr mr shrlk?

      “Yes, even for Sherlock and, believe me, I never thought I’d say that in this lifetime.  But… he’s… well, he’s not the same.  Not the same at all, and it’s not quite as hard to be in the same room with him as I thought it was going to be.  And he’s treated you well, which is all I really find I care about right now.”

That was something Martin still could not fully understand, but he wasn’t going to waste precious time analyzing their situation.  Maybe it was the distraction of Greg’s shooting, maybe it was just spending a little more time with Sherlock and letting his mind acclimatize to his presence.  Maybe it was seeing a slightly more human side of his cousin after their return from the… trip… to London with Mycroft.  Maybes… and it really didn’t matter which one was right.  He could stomach being with Sherlock well enough that future visits should go fairly smoothly and that was all that was important because Arthur would be heartbroken if he couldn’t continue to be fully enjoy and visit with every member his new, albeit strange, family.

      “He has!  I know Mr. Sherlock isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but I think he’s brilliant.  And not just brain brilliant, either.  And… oh, hold on a moment.”

Martin followed Arthur’s eyes and saw Mycroft beckoning his fiancé over for another of their private chats.  Maybe he would always have a little, or a lot, of jealousy about the ways in which Mycroft could bring happiness to Arthur, but there was no denying that Arthur loved every bit of it and didn’t love _him_ any less for it.

      “Hi Mycroft!  This is brilliant!  Everyone is so happy and, oh, it feels funny to move my arm around with my new bracelet.  Not bad funny, but weird funny.  I like it though, so weird good funny.”

      “A little reminder of your impending union, what could be nicer?”

      “Nothing at all.  Not one tiny thing.  I can’t wait to show it off, either.  _Everyone_ is going to want an engagement bracelet once they see ours.  You should start designing yours and Greg’s now so that it’s ready when you ask Greg to be your husband.”

Mycroft had been wondering just when Arthur was going to raise the topic and was somewhat surprised that the boy had taken quite this long to do so.

      “Arthur… I can assure you that such a question is not on the horizon at this point.  Gregory is far too fragile, both physically and emotionally, to provide a properly thought-out response.”

      “So you _are_ going to ask him.“

      “That was not exactly the thrust of my response.”

      “He _will_ say yes, you know.”

      “As I stated, there will be no question given for him to provide an answer.”

      “But you _will_ someday, and he _will_ say yes and you should have something ready so you can give it to him when you ask him.  This will also give you time to show your design to me first, because I have a good eye for jewelry, if I do say so myself, so I can make sure it’s a design that Greg will love!”

Mycroft allowed his mind to play for a moment with the thought of his Gregory, whole and well, wearing a ring that matched the one Mycroft would wear on his own hand.  Then he packed the thought away and tucked it neatly into a corner of his mind.  The time to bring it out again was far in the future, but it would remain safe and sound until it was ready to match his day-to-day joyful reality.

      “I shall give that due consideration.  Now, it is getting quite late and I feel I should return to Gregory’s side and verify his continued health.”

      “OH!  Greg!  I really did forget that he wasn’t here because… well, you know why.  Yes, someone needs to check on him and spend some time with him… oh, he’s been alone all night, hasn’t he?  That’s not fair at all…”

Arthur’s smile was fading quickly and Mycroft moved in quickly to keep his spirits from flagging.

      “Gregory was quite adamant that we take the time and enjoy this evening, Arthur and it would not do to take his generous offer and undo it by bringing sorrow into our celebration.  This is but one event in the chain of events that will lead to your wedding and I am quite sure that Gregory will be able to participate in _many_ of them, once his healing has progressed beyond this very early stage.  However, I do believe that it is time that I take my leave and ensure that he is resting and calm in preparation for tomorrow.”

      “And because you’re worried about him and want to make sure that he’s ok and you miss him a lot and don’t want to be away from him for very long.”

That went without saying.

      “I have no idea what you mean.”

      “Oh, you’re teasing me.  You’ve got your teasing smile on and I know better, anyway.  Greg’s so lucky to have someone who’ll tease him and make him laugh.  He laughs very nicely, too, so yes, I do think you should go now and make him laugh a little so he doesn’t feel so lonely anymore.  I think Skip and I need to leave soon, too.  He’s starting to look sleepy and when Skip gets sleepy, he can get a little baffling and that’s probably not a good thing with Mum, Douglas _and_ Mr. Sherlock all in one place.  We don’t need to add flustered to baffling now do we?”

      “I think that would be a situation to avoid, yes.  Now, is everything in hand?  Do you require anything else from me at this point?”

      “I can’t think of anything.  You done everything I could possibly have imagined and things I couldn’t have imagined if I had tried to!  This has been the best engagement dinner ever!”

      “I am very happy that you are pleased with your evening, my boy.  Now, I shall sneak out before I am stopped for any non-essential activities.  Do not hurry to make an early start to the morning… it shall take effort to prepare Gregory for transport and you may, if you wish, simply meet us at the airfield.”

      “Nope.  I’m going to help, too.  No offense, Mycroft, but I’m good at things like getting ready to fly and it would be best if you had someone there with those skills to make sure you’ve got everything ready to go.”

Not that Mycroft had really thought Arthur would not be there for every second of the transportation process, but he would have felt remiss not making the offer.  And… it would be good to have another hand there for the little things, while John was dedicated to the larger, more critical matters.

      “Your company would be more than welcome.  Until tomorrow?”

      “Until tomorrow.  Bye, Mycroft!  And… thanks again.”

      “You’re quite welcome, Arthur.”

Arthur would never conceive that the joy he took from such little things as a party could never approach Mycroft’s joy at _giving_ him such little things.  How wondrous the coming years would be…

__________

      “Mycroft made the mysterious exit?  Why am I not surprised?”

      “Oh, Skip… you’re already getting baffling, aren’t you?”

      “Am I?  I had no idea.  Actually, I still have no idea… what does that even mean?”

      “Skip, I think you may need a bit of a sleep.”

      “Soon… I actually have a bet with myself as to when Douglas is going to start asking about when Mycroft’s coming back to Fitton.”

      “Why would he do that?”

      “I think he has a little crush going.”

      “NO!  Wait… really?”

      “Well… ok.  Not really.  But I do think he wants to see how much headway he can make against Mycroft’s wit and charm and how far into Mycroft’s pockets he can reach before he’s noticed.”

      “Skip, that’s not nice.”

      “It’s Douglas, Arthur… what do you expect?  And do _not_ take off your bracelet to let him see it or feel it or show it to a mate or anything, understand?  Bracelet stays on your wrist at all times when Douglas Richardson is within sprinting distance.”

      “But Skip, I _want_ people to see it and feel it and…”

      “People, yes.  Douglas, no.  And watch out if he wants you to ask any favors of Mycroft… no matter how simple they sound, they won’t be and he knows by now that Mycroft won’t deny you anything.”

      “Skip, I think you’re being a bit…”

      “No, I’m being a _lot_.  Trust me on this, love.  If it concerns Mycroft, Douglas says ‘Do X’, you say ‘I shall not do X!’  And be very emphatic about it.”

      “I shall not do X!!!”

      “Good, just like that.”

      “Is anyone allowed to know about the enigmatic X or is a password required for unlocking the secret?”

      “AH, Douglas heard about X!”

      “It’s alright, Arthur, he doesn’t know what is X, so you’re safe.”

      “For a certain measure of safe, perhaps, however, Arthur has never been able to withhold any information from me for longer than…”

      “Don’t try to get me involved with your crush on Mycroft, Douglas!  And don’t stick your hands in his trousers, either!”

      “…the time it takes to truly let the issue whirl in his brain as would a fish in a blender.  It comes out about as recognizable, as well.”

      “You know, Mr. Sherlock and I had a conversation about fish and my brain, but there wasn’t a blender involved that time.”

      “And that is the last I want to hear about fish or brains unless it involves another course of this feast.  You two… come with me.  Douglas, do not pilfer the flatware.”

  Arthur and Martin followed meekly after Carolyn who gathered her handbag and marched towards the door.

      “Now, I have graciously allowed you the opportunity to fly to London and waste yet another bit of my valuable time skipping and prancing around the city.  So, here are the rules… you will return my plane in the same condition in which you find it tomorrow at the airfield.  You will not garner an arrest record during your stay nor do _anything_ that will require legal intervention. Consider _medical_ intervention also on your list of things that you will not entertain. And I shall not receive any communication to disrupt my holiday that begins with the words ‘Mum, are you sitting down?’  Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

      “We’re just going for a little visit, Mum.  And I think Skip and I do quite well on our own.  And when we’re on our own together, then… well, then we do _more_ than quite well!”

Carolyn looked at her son, who was making his best attempt at a ‘so there!’ face and wondered exactly when her baby Arthur had become the man standing in front of her.  A man soon to be married, god help them all, and who had shown more courage and strength than a thousand of the idiots who saw him as a silly little clown who had no talent beyond making a fool of himself.

      “I shall be the judge of that and I do not anticipate rendering my verdict until you take down my last words as I lay on my deathbed.  However, I shall say that I am at least slightly more confident that you will not unduly shame MJN than I have been in the past and that I have some faith that if a perilous or expensive situation arises, you will find some method to extricate yourself that involves neither a prison cell nor a cemetery.  And that, before you ask, is without the assistance of any of Martin’s familial contacts.  Which do ease my mind, nonetheless, and I expect you to make use of them freely if your own wits come up short.”

      “Well, that’s… not unpleasant, Carolyn.  Thank you.”

      “You can call her Mum now, Skip.”

The volume of two horrified ‘NO!’s’ had Arthur rapping his head trying to dispel the ringing.

      “Arthur, you may be joining the legion of the conjugally joined, however, I am not adopting Martin like one of the shelter animals you are forever trying to sneak home under your jacket when you volunteer for an afternoon.  That being said… I _shall_ be a mother-in-law and do expect the proper treatment, as such.  You will visit regularly, wear whatever clothing with which I choose to gift you, consume whatever meals I deign to place in your refrigerator, deposit any adopted children on my doorstep not one minute later than the agreed-upon visitation time and never, under any circumstances, make me wait for your daily phone call when we are not flying because I will visit upon you my most strident wrath.”

      “That’s one of the deadly sins!  I remember that one.  And lust, because Skip used it twice on his list.”

      “And that is another thing.  You will not share with me the details of how you implement any of the deadly sins, most specifically lust, within the confines of your home.”

      “I think that is something we can guarantee you, Carolyn.  And… the rest.  We can guarantee all of that fairly easily.”

      “Good.  It would not go well for you if you didn’t.  Now, I must go and commence packing.  And inform Herc he also needs to commence packing.  I plan on making use of Mr. Holmes’s bribery for as long as I possibly can, so if you decide to have an extra day or so to extend your bacchanal, you have my permission to take them.  DOUGLAS!  We are leaving!  Arthur… Martin…”

Carolyn brusquely yanked her son and his fiancé, in turn, by the collar and pressed a quick peck on each of their cheeks, then dragged Douglas out the door before he had a chance to disrupt her tender moment.

      “I think your mother’s happy about the wedding.”

      “Of course she is.  WEDDING!”

Arthur danced in place and Martin just shook his head as Sherlock and John joined them.

      “Well, guess you’ve got the blessing from both sides of the family, mate.  That’s one hurdle cleared.”

      “Huzzah.  That’s the easy part, John.  Now, I just have to find a place to live, try and finance a wedding…”

      “Oh, Skip… you’re definitely baffling and it’s time to get you home.”

      “Arthur, do you actually know what ‘baffling’ means?”

      “I am almost certain that I’m at least partly right and that’s enough for me right now, so come on.  Mr. Sherlock?  Doctor Watson?  Are you coming too?”

      “Well, we’ve eaten all the food and drank all the champagne.  Since there’s no karaoke or jugglers, I think we’ve done all we can do here.”

      “WEDDING!  We could have karaoke AND jugglers!  Oh, this is going to be the best wedding ever!”

John tried to avoid the eyes of both Sherlock and Martin as he pulled Arthur out of the restaurant, hoping Sherlock’s irritation didn’t extend to their bedroom.  Or… if it did, that Sherlock was feeling very creative in showing his displeasure…

__________

      “I would have been far more happy with you if I had found you sleeping, my dear.”

      “Uh oh, Dad’s home and he’s miffed.”

      “Please tell me you have taken _some_ rest this evening.”

      “You have taken some rest this evening.”

      “You are very fortunate that your appearance is extraordinarily pleasing to the eye, Gregory.”

And Mycroft was not disappointed in his prediction that Lestrade would laugh his musical laugh and that his slightly-affected irritation would not withstand its sound.

      “I better start buying the wrinkle cream now before I lose my superpowers.”

      “I think it is _I_ who should be worrying about wrinkles.  And the greying of my hair.”

      “You’ll dye it.  We’ll be lowering you into the ground and your zombie hand will be grabbing for a bottle of tint to do a touch up before you’re stuck behind the Pearly Gates and out of reach of the shops.”

Mycroft was both astonished and annoyed by how easily his Gregory could know his mind.  The fact that in his personal effects was a very clear statement as to how his hair should be presented for the funeral service, therefore, would not be shared at this particular moment.

      “Be that as it may, I am still awaiting an answer on your level of energy.”

      “I nodded off a bit, if that makes you happy.  Got a nurse to give me a few puffs of her cigarette, too and…”

      “WHAT!  I SHALL HAVE THE ENTIRE STAFF TERMINATED!”

      “Ok… don’t make jokes about smoking when I’m already sleeping on the couch for… not sleeping.”

      “Gregory Lestrade…”

      “Yes, my dear Mycroft Holmes?”

      “You do adore…”

It was only then that Mycroft’s mind put together various signs into a less-than-comforting picture.  His Gregory’s smile was wide and beautiful, but there was a sheen on his skin and the slightest tremor in his fingers that complemented the way his beautiful smile did not completely reach his eyes.

      “Adore what?  Really, gimme a list.  A big, long list of adorable things about me.”

      “Very well.  It is adorable that you are lying, not resting for a moment while I was gone, and that you are extremely overtired and doing your health an ill-service.   Oh, do pardon me… that is on my list of items _not_ adorable about you.”

      “Bastard.”

      “Fabricator.”

      “Wasn’t tired.”

      “You are utterly exhausted, if the physical signs tell their tale properly.  Why would you do this to yourself, Gregory?  You are indescribably lucky to have survived your ordeal, yet you seem absolutely determined to turn your back on that luck and allow yourself to expire, regardless.”

      “You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

      “I have _every_ idea and I am not at all pleased with my observations.  You are to undergo an extremely stressful trial tomorrow and you are not…”

Sometimes, quite frequently of late, Mycroft thought himself the least intelligent individual on the planet.  Taking his usual seat next to the hospital bed, Mycroft lay his hand over Lestrade’s and simply held it gently.

      “I am sorry, Gregory… in my own joy to see you made comfortable in my… our… home, I had neglected to reflect on what might be your feelings about tomorrow’s events.  And that you were not confident about your relocation from the beginning.  Perhaps we should take some time and discuss the issue.”

      “Nothing to talk about.”

      “You do become quite petulant when you do not wish to discuss a matter that is distressing to you, don’t you, my dear?”

      ‘Nope.”

      “My point is made.”

      “I just wasn’t tired; leave it at that.”

      “Or rather, your mind would not allow you to rest, racing as it was through all of the potential problems and missteps that could occur.  Problems and missteps that could gravely impact your well being.”

Lestrade’s scowl was not nearly as fearsome as it could be, verifying again both his lack of energy and his state of mind.

      “I’m not scared.”

      “I think that is a matter of debate, actually, and… I must say now, having been alerted to the issue, that I would be more concerned if you were not approaching tomorrow with extreme trepidation.  For us it will be an easy thing, but I have overlooked how terribly far you are away from being healed.  And how close you were to leaving me alone.”

Mycroft simply sat as his partner frowned, then fixed a determined grimace on his face, only to have it slide away a few moments later to be replaced a look of weary resignation.

      “I was always worried that being with you would leave me hobbled.  Can’t figure out one thing about what you’re thinking, but you can read me like one of my common-person’s books.”

      “I do believe you _frequently_ peer beneath what I try to present as the reality of what lies behind the masquerade.”

      “Bollocks.  I can only know what you tell me and just hope it’s the truth.”

      “Gregory… you are being contentious simply as an attempt to turn away my attention from you fears about tomorrow and I will not have you expend precious energy on an argument that you are provoking based solely on nonsense.  If you relay your concerns to me, perhaps I may find some method to allay them.  Even if not, I would want to know your mind going into this ordeal so that I might provide you with the support you both require and deserve.”

      “I’m not a kid.”

      “I appears we will revisit that particular notion often during our lives, for your actions are often at odds with that assertion… it is not childish, my dear,  to have concerns about your health and vitality when facing a course of actions that threaten to compromise it.  If you were to undergo further surgeries or face an illness, I would expect you to have worries; there is no difference in this case.”

Mycroft simply adored Lestrade’s fierce pride, it gave him character that few others could hope to achieve. However, it would also be something to guard against if it blockaded lines of communication on matters of importance, such as this one.

      “Please, Gregory… talk to me.”

      “I don’t want to die again, is that what you want to hear?”

      “There is nothing I _want_ to hear, so I would hope you would simply speak truthfully and from your heart.”

      “I don’t know what to say.  I cheated death once and now I’m putting myself right back out there for it to grab me again.  I know that stuff’s not in good shape inside me right now.  It’s nowhere near what one would call in good shape.  And they’re going to toss me in an ambulance, then on a plane where who the fuck knows what could happen, not that I think Martin’s going to do anything but a great job piloting the damn thing, but…”

      “But there are many unknown factors that could confound a simple and uneventful trip.”

      “Yeah… I guess that’s it.”

      “And what perfect sense it makes.  Again, I have not honestly placed myself, proverbially, in your shoes to view our departure, but now that I do, I understand clearly your point of view.  And it has been weighing on you since the decision was made, has it not?  Despite your very skilled concealment of this fact from all of your circle.”

      “I don’t like to bother people.”

      “Expressing justifiable concerns about your own welfare cannot be categorized as ‘bothering people.’  I shall be honest, Gregory, and share with you that John has already discussed with me this very situation, where you would demonstrate great reluctance to speak with full truth about your condition or share with us details either of your emotional or physical welfare.  While I do applaud your desire to spare us what you see as burdensome behavior, I would ask that set aside that desire for the more practical mindset of assisting us most fully to facilitate your recovery.”

      “It’s not what I’m used to.”

      “Perhaps not, but neither have you been in such a situation prior to this time.  It is expected that your behavior would have to change to accommodate a new circumstance.  I have promised myself that I shall not overwhelm you with my own form of bothersome attention; can you make a promise to not _underwhelm_ myself and Doctor Watson with your needs?”

      “I suppose I can try.”

      “That is all I can ask.  Now, if you like, I shall describe to you every aspect of our journey, so you shall have a fuller picture of the expectations, and I would appreciate you notifying me of any feature you would like modified or alerting me to any aspect you feel has been overlooked.  Subsequent to that, I shall gladly share with you all of the details of this evening’s festivities.  Will that be satisfactory?”

Though his love would never admit it, Mycroft could see the relief flood through Lestrade’s body, likely from both the admission of his concerns and from them being taken seriously and acted upon.  Though he knew he was very much the same in this regard, Mycroft could only hope that his Gregory sincerely tried to be more open and up-front about his feelings, because he did not trust his own skills to properly recognize when there was a difficulty that was being camouflaged.  That he nearly missed tonight both the indicators and their meaning was terribly worrying.

      “I would actually like to know more about what’s going to happen and I’m _dying_ to know about the big party!”

      “Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

      “Pfftt….”

__________

Mycroft was more than a little pleased that Lestrade fell asleep during their discussion.  In fact, the moment he began speaking, the ease that had started to creep into his Detective Inspector’s bones continued to grow to the point that Mycroft felt rather irrationally proud of his voice’s effect on Lestrade’s well-being.  There was a comfort in knowing that, as for no other in his life, any distress his lover possessed could be soothed to a great degree through the simple act of conversation.  And, with Lestrade soundly asleep, Mycroft was able catch his own very welcome nap before John arrived to begin preparations.

      “You two have a _good_ night?”

      “Do me the kindness of not allowing Gregory to be witness to your ludicrous leer.   He has already expressed his frustrations with his enforced celibacy and I would rather not have to rebuff his feeble advances an additional time.”

      “Yeah, poor bloke.  He’s not going to get his bell rung for quite awhile, not that there aren’t other ways you can express some physical interest that will keep his spirits up.  Well, as _up_ as they can get at this point.”

      “Your lurid imagination is not something I shall choose to indulge.”

      “Your loss.  Did he at least get some rest?  I’m going to give him something to keep him calm through the trip, but a good night’s sleep is going to be important, too.”

      “Unfortunately, he has enjoyed but a few hours… I am ashamed to admit that I did not observe how disturbed he truly was about his relocation and it preyed upon his mind most strongly while we were at dinner.”

      “And, of course, he didn’t choose to share any of it until you called him out.”

      “Truly.  It is as you predicted; however, I hope he and I have come to some agreement that will preclude this situation in the future.”

      “That’s going to be helpful, because I’m going to need every bit of information he can give me if I’m to provide the best quality of care.”

      “We can but hope.  Now, with what do you require assistance?”

      “Nothing, really.  Not right now, at least.  I’m just going to start getting some supplies together for the plane, make sure I’ve got his records up to date… Arthur will be here in a few minutes and I know he’s anxious to get all of the decorations packed away properly so they’ll be ready to put up when Greg’s in his new room.  He’s a little paranoid right now that we leave something behind.”

      “Then I shall help to ensure that we do not.  I, also, would not be pleased to find that any of Arthur’s artistic endeavors were left to languish.”

      “Or yours.  I wouldn’t have expected it, why I don’t know, but you’re good.  And Greg thinks so, too.”

Mycroft hid the tiny flash of pleasure he experienced hearing John’s genuine compliment of his work.  Perhaps it had been a foolish thing to put aside his art for so long…

      “That is gratifying to hear and you have my thanks.”

      “But if you start putting up nude portraits of yourselves, you’re going to have to hire a new doctor.”

      “Is there a time that your mind does not descend into the depths of depravity?”

      “Haven’t found one yet, but I’ve still got a lot of years to find out.”

      “Oh!  Find out what?  Is this a game?  I want to play!  When’s my turn?”

      “We have yet to commence a game, however, for there is very serious work to conduct.  John must begin preparing the way for Gregory’s transport and _we_ must organize and stow away the artwork for Gregory’s enjoyment in his new residence.”

      “Yes!  That was my plan, too!  I brought a nice big box to put everything in, along with my supplies to make more once I see Greg’s room.  Is it going to be big?”

Mycroft ran his mind’s eye across the room he had directed his staff to prepare for Gregory’s use.

      “It will be sufficient in size to properly display what has already been created and nicely accommodate more.”

      “Hurray!  I have LOTS of plans for new drawings.  And some puppets I want to make.  And, of course, a petting book.”

John just smiled and waved at Mycroft as he left the older Holmes to travel alone down the road of inquiry.

      “A petting book?”

      “Sure!  You take each page and put something on it that feels nice, like the flannel they use for pajamas and the fur they sell in the fabric shops that’s not real fur and sometimes blue, and the stuff they make shiny scarves out of or good scratchy wool.  Then, when you’re feeling down, you can pet something in your book and feel better!”

      “Very creative.  Gregory will be very pleased.  Now, shall we begin?”

      “Let’s.  And I’ll be very quiet so Greg doesn’t wake up.  He looks very tired.”

      “He _is_ rather fatigued, for we talked rather late into the night.  However, he was very excited to hear the details of your grand evening.”

      “I’m so glad.  I got a little worried that he would feel left out and sad.”

      “Then, you may put your mind at ease.  He was both delighted that you had such a well-attended celebration and very anxious for a gathering that he is capable of attending.  You and I shall begin planning the itinerary while in London so that all preparations may be completed in time for Gregory’s ability to attend.”

      “Brilliant!  I love parties and I have no objection to having lots!”

And Mycroft had no objection to providing lots.  Even if there be games on the horizon...

__________

Mycroft and Arthur cleared the walls and Arthur gleefully greeted Lestrade when he woke, launching into his own description of the previous night’s events and what was going on in terms of preparations for their journey.  Apparently, Mycroft was amused to learn, Martin and Sherlock were in charge of ensuring all belongings were collected and deposited on their aircraft, which would then be prepared for their departure under Sherlock’s watchful eye.  It was very welcome to see the cousins able to interact with less venom and more productivity than they had been demonstrating during the last visit to London.

When John returned to the room, it was impossible for Mycroft to miss the slight escalation of tension in his Gregory’s body and he was gladdened to see that John noticed it, as well.

      “Getting close?  I’m ready to get my chauffeured ride home.”

      “All we need to do is get you unhooked from the wall and then toss you out of the window for the medics to catch and shove you into the ambulance.”

      “Sounds lovely.  Do I get one of those crash helmets?”

      “You’re telling a joke, right, Doctor Watson?  Greg is going to get a little ride in his bed to the ambulance, isn’t he?  If not… well, I’ll carry him myself so he doesn’t have to be tossed and caught because that can’t be good for him.”

John had to chuckle because he had no doubt Arthur would hoist Lestrade right out of the bed and march him outside if that was what it would take to keep him safe.

      “It’s definitely a joke.  Greg’s gotten too heavy lying around like a big lazy cat for anyone to catch him and not break their backs.  And I _am_ ignoring that rude noise, Detective Inspector.  Fine role model you make for the kiddies.”

      “Maybe that’ll be my job from now on, visiting all the schools and telling kids to stay off drugs and that the cops are their friends.”

      “That would be brilliant!  And no one could do it better than you, Greg!  No one at all.  They’d listen to you because you’re a brilliant policeman and smart and if you wore a hat and nice uniform it would be even better when you gave your show.  If you can’t find a hat and uniform, I’m sure Mycroft can get them for you.  Or I can make them.  I’ll start looking at pictures and find something really super to use as a model.  Mycroft, if I make a model of a hat and uniform, do you think you could find someone to make it real and proper for me?”

Mycroft ignored the terrified looks coming from Lestrade and John and gave Arthur a very indulgent smile.

      “That will be a very simple matter.  However, let us see if Gregory chooses to follow that path or if he opts instead to return to his caseload and stacks of papers that are beckoning him so seductively from the top of his desk.”

      “Oh… yes, of course!  Let’s see what he wants to do and then I can get to work.  That makes lot of sense.  No use getting a hat and uniform made if it’s not going to be used except around the house.”

      “Very wise.  So, if I understand you correctly, John… the path is clear to begin the exodus.”

      “Basically.   As soon as Greg says he’s ready, we’ll get started.”

Lestrade was not happy at the eyes that turned towards him because what he wanted more than anything was a little time.  Time to take few breaths, time to go over all of Mycroft’s preparations in his mind once again, time to get his head in a good place to face putting himself in the hands of fate while getting shuffled around like a bag of flour.  But if he said he needed time, he’d get a lot of sympathetic smiles and pats on the arm and that put a sour taste in his mouth.  And it wouldn’t change the outcome… he was leaving today, no matter what, so he might as well be a man about things and get it all over with now.

      “Ok, then… looks like the room’s clear, so I guess there’s no reason to put this off.  If we leave now, there’ll be plenty of time to get settled, then you tossers can watch a film or something and enjoy the rest of the day.”

      “ _We_ , Greg!  _We_ tossers!  You’ll be able to watch with us and it will be brilliant!”

      “We’ll see how things go, Arthur.  Ok, John… it’s time.”

John wanted to smack his friend so hard his head rang for lying through his teeth, but now was not the right moment.  There _would_ be words about this later, though and, from the looks of it, Mycroft would have his own set of words to add to the discussion.

      “Ok… I’ll get some help and we’ll get going.  I’ll ride with Greg and you two can follow us to the airfield.”

      “That’s brilliant!  I get to follow an ambulance and if Greg falls out the back like they sometime do in the films, Mycroft and I will see it happen and we can stop and pick him up!”

John put a large grin on his face, hoping that it distracted Arthur from the look of terror moving across Lestrade’s features and Mycroft quickly hustled Arthur out the door to get Arthur’s car ready to go.

      “John…”

      “Doesn’t happen.  Doesn’t _ever_ happen, so calm down.  This is going to go easily so don’t worry.”

John poked his head out of the room and waved at the nurse’s station to signal they were ready to move, which set a small army of orderlies, nurses and a free doctor or two descending on Lestrade’s room and within a short period of time, Lestrade’s bed was rolling down the hallway to the waiting ambulance, Arthur and Mycroft waiting nearby with Arthur’s enthusiastic ‘hurray!’ actually drawing a smile from Lestrade’s lips.  Another quick transfer and Lestrade was staring at the ceiling of the ambulance, praying that the road to the airfield was free from holes, bumps, sheep or any other cars straddling the lanes that had another surprise in store for him.

      “Still, ok?”

      “As ok as I can be.”

      “Well, that should be increasing soon.”

      “I thought I saw you put something in the IV.”

      “Curses, foiled again.”

      “Some sort of sedative?”

      “Just to take the edge off your stress.  This _is_ going to be stressful for you, Greg, and there’s no reason you can’t have a little help with it.”

      “Can I have a little top off just to be sure?”

      “Nope.  Then you’ll be drooling and singing and nobody wants to experience that.”

      “Arthur would.”

      “New rule… Arthur cannot be invoked as an example to justify any form of behavior, good or bad.”

      “So, you’re one of _those_ … make up the rules as you go along.”

      “And, since I’m the one with the magical syringe, just get used to it.”

__________

John had to admit to some worry riding through the less-than-well-maintained local roads and breathed a sigh of relief when they finally arrived at the airfield.  As soon as the ambulance doors were opened, a beaming Arthur stuck his head inside and John motioned him up to sit for a second.

      “I’ve never sat in an ambulance before… this is brilliant!”

      “Well, let’s hope you only have to ever sit in one and not recline like this pitiful one here.”

      “…eard that, …stard.”

      “Doctor Watson, I do believe that Greg is having some form of a problem.”

      “Yeah, it’s called chemical happiness.  He’s fine, Arthur.  I just gave him a little something to help him relax.”

      “Oh, well that’s good.  Maybe I should get some of that to give to Skip, because he gets very nervous sometimes and  rather stressed when things go a bit iffy.  Then he gets fidgety and stammery and all sorts of odd things tend to happen and we’re not always somewhere that I can have him take a little sit-down and sing him a song.”

      “Let’s talk about that when we get to London, ok?  I’ll give you some ideas for helping avoid the dreaded sit down.”

      “Thanks!  Oh… do we actually have to leave now?”

      “The nice men waiting for us so they can get to Greg say it’s definitely time to leave.”

      “Alright then… I’ll go tell Mycroft everything’s ok.”

Arthur jumped down, thanking each of the medical personnel waiting to lift Lestrade out of the ambulance and John followed after him, clearing the way to get the next stage of the journey underway.  When the gurney was on the ground, John looked over to Arthur who jumped slightly, realizing he was supposed to lead the way, but marched off proudly, looking over his shoulder every two seconds to make sure everything behind him was going well.

It took a bit of time to get Lestrade situated in the cabin, especially with Sherlock insisting on hovering nearly on top of them to better observe each step of the procedure and double-checking everything to make sure it met with his approval.  Mycroft found it surprisingly easy to simply stand aside and let John do his work, participating only to offer his thanks and a small envelope to each of the ambulance crew when they finally departed the plane.

      “We have been waiting for an exceedingly long time, John.  I do not enjoy waiting, as I am sure you are well aware.”

      “Sorry about that… silly concerns about Greg’s safe travel.  Next time, I’ll go with my window tossing idea and save us a few minutes.”

      “I have no desire to know the foundation of your attempt at humor, but I do have a desire for tea.”

      “Don’t look at me!  I’ve got enough on my hands without having to worry about making tea and crashing the plane by accident!”

      “Arthur!  Tea!”

      “Oh… I can do that!  That’s my job, after all.  Let me ask Skip when we’re taking off because I can’t make tea during takeoff.  It’s a law.”

      “Mycroft!”

      “I am not going to amend the aviation code to accommodate your lack of patience, Sherlock.  However… Arthur, why don’t you alert Martin that we are prepared and he may get underway at his earliest convenience?”

      “Brilliant!  We’re going to London!”

Arthur bounded up the aisle and barged onto the flight deck.  Mycroft had to laugh seeing the young man look carefully behind him, then gently close the door.  It, obviously, would be at least a few minutes until they departed so that Arthur could gain his fill of affection before the trip.

      “John!  Why is Lestrade smiling?”

      “He’s happy.”

      “What did you give him?”

      “Nothing I’m sharing.”

      “Pity… I have had to associate with Martin, at his most insufferable, and now I have to sit in proximity to Mycroft, who is always insufferable.   And I have no tea.”

Mycroft spied a box of tea in the galley, withdrew a bag and tossed it at his brother, cleanly hitting him on the nose.

      “Now _you_ have tea.  And _we_ may have quiet.  And I do believe I hear the engines making ready to take us aloft.  If you are a very lucky boy, Arthur might find some hot water to marry with your lonely bag of tea and your day shall be a blessed one.”

      “John!”

      “John isn’t here, try again later.”

Sherlock huffed out a loud breath and threw his tea bag at the speaker when Martin announced they were about to leave, watching, then, the bag fall onto Arthur’s head as he left the flight deck prompting a loud squeak that set Lestrade laughing and Mycroft and John railing at Sherlock from the back of the cabin.  The detective mentally declared that _no_ cup of tea was going to make his day a blessed one.  Unless he was also presented with a biscuit.  And only chocolate would do.  Eaten away from the chattering masses.

      “I am joining Martin.  Arthur bring tea when it is prepared.”

      “Oh, I’m not sure… ok, I guess Mr. Sherlock _can_ go on the flight deck.”

      “And we are all the better for it.  Now, make yourself ready, my boy and bid farewell to Fitton for the time being.”

      “Bye Fitton!  We’ll be back soon!”

      “How wonderfully literal-minded you are.”

      “Thanks.  I do try.  At least I think I do.”

__________

      “Boring.”

      “Then leave.”

      “I believe it is considered bad form to open the door of an aircraft midflight.”

      “Not the one that sends you back to the cabin where you’re supposed to be anyway.”

      “It is, perhaps, even more boring back there.”

      “You can talk to John.”

      “But John will make me acknowledge Mycroft and, further, will have his attention diverted by Lestrade’s hypochondria.”

      “And this is the better option?”

      “I am learning to pilot a plane, which may prove useful at some point.  However, I shall endeavor to do a more credible job than you should my skills be pressed into service.”

      “Take a parachute.  Jump.  Meet us at Mycroft’s house if you survive.”

      “I _have_ previously; I do not see why this occasion would end differently.”

      “Why would…”

      “It is immaterial, since I shall not be leaving your lovely aircraft until Arthur brings my tea and biscuit and I have taken my turn at the helm.”

      “Then you’re here forever because you are not touching any of these controls.”

      “Oh look… I touched it.”

      “Sherlock…”

      “I touched this one, too.  You can even see my fingerprint, which proves my statement.”

      “Stop that.”

      “Noooo…. I don’t think so.  There.  I touched that one twice.  Is that a record?”

      “ARTHUR!”

      “Shouldn’t you be using your intercom system?  I thought they would teach you that during your lesson on instrument touching.”

Arthur peeked through the door, watching closely for flying tea bags.

      “Skip!  Are you ok?”

      “Tea.  Biscuit.  Now.”

      “A chocolate biscuit or I shall move from touching to twiddling.”

      “This is serious, Arthur.  Please hurry.”

      “Oh, but I’d love to watch Mr. Sherlock twiddle!”

      “There shall be no twiddling!”

      “Here I go… that appears shiny…”

      “Arthur!”

      “Tea and a chocolate biscuit coming up.  Hold off on twiddling until I get back, Mr. Sherlock… I don’t want to miss anything!”

      “I shall restrain myself.  And when you return… there also may be poking.”

      “Brilliant!”

      “Help me…”

__________

      “Sherlock… what did you do?”

      “Nothing.  There is _nothing_ to do in this soup tin.”

      “Did you touch anything?”

      “Like this.”

      “STOP POKING!  This is serious.  Did you touch _anything_?”

      “I have been sitting here patiently waiting for this torture to end and have found nothing interesting with which to occupy my fingers.”    

      “Ok then… just tap that little flashing light a few times, will you?”

Sherlock cut his eyes over to look at his cousin and was taken aback at the very clear concern written on Martin’s face.

      “What is wrong?”

      “Just tap the light a few times.  Ok, a little harder.  Fine, now hit it, NO!  not that hard… ok…um… this is… can you tap it just one more time?  Oh, ok… maybe it’s nothing…”

      “Martin… you _will_ tell me what is the problem.”

      “It could be nothing.”

      “And what else could it be if it isn’t _nothing_?”

      “That the landing gear has a malfunction.”

      “What?”

      “I think I said that clearly enough.”

      “Are you saying we can’t land?”

      “Oh, we can land… we just can’t _safely_ land.”

      “If you are choosing this time to exercise your woefully-lacking sense of humor, I must advise you that your efforts are both pathetic and distasteful.”

      “Yes, that’s it.  I’m going to joke about a potentially dangerous landing with my family and fiancé on board.  That sounds just like something I’d do.”

      “How long until we reach London.”

      “Oh… Arthur’s probably dancing in the cabin and singing that he can see London out of the window right now.  It’s because I’m on approach that I’m even going through the landing procedure.”

      “What… what are you going to do?”

      “There’s not much _to_ do besides notify the tower, cross my fingers and hope for the best.”

      “Are you being flippant?”

      “No, I’m being honest.  It could be a false alarm, it could be something minor, it could be… we could be sliding belly down on the tarmac.  You’d better go and let the others know what’s going on and tell them to get strapped in tightly.  Arthur knows what to do, so let him help.”

Sherlock made note of the grim set to Martin’s lips and held back any further comments, simply nodding, rising from his chair and moving towards the main cabin without another word.

      “Mr. Sherlock!  It’s London!  Right there!  We’re almost there!  We’re… what’s wrong?”

Arthur’s abrupt shift in tone drew both John and Mycroft’s attention from their final check on Lestrade and each man quickly rose and began to move towards Sherlock, who simply raised a hand and moved towards them instead.

      “There is the possibility of a problem with the aircraft that may impact the quality of our landing.”

      “Details, Sherlock.  What exactly is the nature of the situation and what is being done to correct it?”

      “According to Martin, there is indication that the landing gear may have a malfunction, the extent of which is unknown.  There is no action that can correct the problem at this time and our only recourse is to, as they say, ride it out.  Arthur, you are aware of the necessary procedures for a landing that is potentially hazardous?”

      “What?... oh… Yes!  I do!  I’ll show everyone what to do and we had best do it fast because we’re going down already.  But… I don’t know what extra things we can do for Greg.  I don’t remember them showing me that in the film I watched.”

Mycroft felt a spike of helplessness that he had never before endured and prayed he never experienced again.  All of Gregory’s fears, fears he had marginalized…  For his part, John was just as shaken and found it very difficult to release his partner’s hand, which he had taken as soon as Sherlock had finished his speech.  However, Arthur took his duties very seriously and quickly had bodies moving to seats, with seatbelts buckled.  He quickly checked over the straps and restraints that were holding Lestrade in place and was just finished strapping himself into his own chair, demonstrating the proper position to when Martin announced their imminent touchdown.

The first second of the landing gave everyone hope that their fears were unfounded, but the sharp lurch and ear-splitting squeal that followed dashed those hopes against the rocks.  Each moment that passed was met with a jerk or a shudder that rippled through the plane and John hoped that he and Sherlock wouldn’t break each other’s fingers from holding hands as if it was the last thing they would ever do.  It was after three or four eternities had passed that the plane came to a stop and John sniffed, hoping desperately that he wouldn’t smell smoke.  Smelling and sensing nothing amiss, he slowly straightened up and began checking his partner for any injury.  Unsurprisingly, he was swatted away, but, also unsurprisingly, was drawn back into a tight embrace that ended with very hard and desperate kiss that John returned fully.  Both men looked up when Martin staggered into the cabin, but couldn’t hold back their smiles when Arthur launched himself forward to hold his fiancé so firmly Martin had to wriggle around just to get some space to inflate his lungs.

      “Mycroft?  You alive?”

      “I believe that I am, John, though I do need to check on… JOHN!”

John hurled himself out of his seat and raced to Lestrade’s side, Arthur not a step behind him.

      “No… oh, Doctor Watson…”

John began checking vital signs and sent up a silent prayer that he was hearing sirens approaching and not suffering auditory hallucinations because there was nothing he could do, as it stood, to help his friend who was losing his color as quickly as the trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth was dribbling down onto the floor…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next installment won't be too long in coming, but I will have an AO3 Auction fic to write and The Shop Boy is still ongoing, so I'll need a few days to get going. Subscribe to the Lets You Know Its Alive series to get the notification when I jump back into this very deep pool or follow me on tumblr (eventhorizon451.tumblr.com) to find out the next starting time...

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Expressing Justifiable Concerns](https://archiveofourown.org/works/772460) by [PrussianInAmerica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrussianInAmerica/pseuds/PrussianInAmerica)




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